


gonna need a bigger boat

by lacecat



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boats and Sharks and Surprise Feelings, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, SFBB2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 11:06:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19333297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: “You really want to say that, when you’re sitting across from a man who lost his leg to a shark?”Flint scoffs. "There is no way a shark took your leg!""Of course not," Silver says, smirking. After he draws the silence out, for what feels appropriately dramatic enough period of time, he adds, "It was two sharks."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is part of the silverflint big bang 2019 with [this lovely art by @riisinaakka!!](https://riisinaakka-draws.tumblr.com/post/185799098178/the-silverflint-big-bang-2019-illustrations-that-i) (never mind this fic go stare at those masterpieces!!!!!)
> 
> a huge shoutout to @runawaymarbles for the emotional writing support & being the sounding board for this!! also all the shark gifs here




 

Silver says, "I'm looking for a boat." Underneath his feet, the cheap plastic-coated aluminum of the dock is sticking to the soles of his sneakers as he shifts his weight. It’s a hot day, the kind where the ground seems to sluggishly rise up, the heat baking through the soles of his shoes if he stands still for too long.

 

He adds, “I’d like to hunt a shark.”

 

The man squints up at him. "Do I know you?"

 

When the man dismisses him, Silver continues down the dock. To the next occupied boat he comes across in the marina, Silver says right away, “I’d like to hunt a shark.”

 

The woman stares at him, silently and yet somehow imbued with growing aggression, until he takes the hint. He keeps on walking.

 

The next several boats are the same, all either rolling their eyes or brushing him off, if not laughing directly at him. Silver keeps on walking down the planks, as the sun rises more and more above his head.

 

At the end of the last section of dock, there's a small sailboat tied off. The wood paneling towards its bow is sun-bleached, setting it apart from the shiny fiberglass he’s been blinded by all afternoon.

 

As Silver approaches, he sees there's a man sitting on the deck, twisting rope into neat coils around his arms. Already, a line forms in his brow - and Silver stops at the edge of the dock.

 

"Hello," Silver says, casually. "I'm looking - "

 

Without even glancing up, the man says, "No."

 

“I haven't even finished my pro- "

 

"Not interested."

 

"How can you not be interested yet? You haven’t heard me out. What's your name?”

 

"Let me guess, here," the man informs him. He puts the bundle of rope down, now tied together neatly from where it slipped off his freckled arms. "You just want to go out on the water for a photogenic afternoon. You probably have a shitty tattoo of a single ocean wave on your chest, and you just think you’re _all about the ocean life, man_ , and most pressingly, you think that instead of paying me for a tour, you'll mention me on some social media account, and I'll gratefully accept.”

 

A wave laps along the edge of the dock under his feet. "Well, I do have a shell tattoo," Silver says, not to be deterred, “It’s very tasteful.”

 

“Good luck, then, with - ” and the man makes some dismissive gesture without lifting a finger of his, which under ordinary circumstances, would be quite impressive, “ - whatever you’re looking for.”

 

Silver lowers his sunglasses, meeting the man's scowl with a slow blink. Not to be deterred, he says, "You do tours?"

 

The scowl turns up a notch. "Only when I can't make rent," the man says, rather grimly. He looks at Silver up and down, and he turns his back on him.  "And I've paid for the month.”

 

More than a little amused, Silver lets his eyes trace over the broad line of his back - not altogether an unappealing sight, with the threadbare tee-shirt he's wearing, though he really is there for much more important things. "You haven't even heard me out,” he says. “Now - what’s your name, captain?”

 

"Go away."

 

"Luckily for you," Silver continues, "I'm not here for your ordinary boat tour."

 

"You can't pose for photos anywhere remotely in this direction. Go - “

 

"I have a proposition for you  -  “

 

"You _really_ don't have anything I want."

 

"You've heard about this recent string of shark attacks?" The man starts to untie the sailboat from the dock, looking like he’s resolute to ignore him. Silver continues, "I'm seeking a way to collect on the shark bounty, with the right partner.”

 

That makes the man’s hands still ever so slightly, the rope stopping its momentum through his grip. But he seems to shake it off just as fast as Silver can blink, asks like he couldn’t care less, "What shark bounty?"

 

"The one that Mayor Rogers announced last night," Silver says smoothly. “Quite a sum. Your - colleagues around here, they didn’t seem much interested. Maybe the challenge is too much for them?”

 

"Sharks don't go after people unprovoked," the man says, then adds rather condescendingly, "No matter what movies you might have seen otherwise, they don't just _attack_ people. Anyone worth their salt here knows that, and quite honestly, I don’t blame them for not wanting to go after some innocent creature - least of all with someone like you.”

 

“The mayor seems to have another opinion on that regard,” Silver says, then quickly, “Don’t you want to know more?”

  
"I don't have time for this,” the man snaps. “And look here, the harbormaster is here to kick you out.”

 

An incredibly tall man has walked up behind Silver in this time, carrying some kind of clipboard, and as Silver glances at him, looks like he'd like to be anywhere else. 

 

"Just here to tell you to avoid the eastern shoals, the surf has been rough there for the past week," said harbormaster informs him. "Also, some construction by the town for some rally, so you'd best move your trailer."

 

"Great," the man says. "Just what anyone needed - can you kick this man out of here, now?"   


The harbormaster glances over at Silver, who merely keeps his eyes wide. "You’d best leave Flint alone," he says to him, after a moment, "He doesn't like anyone. It is public property, though, so you stay at your own risk with... him." 

  
  
“Fuck off, Billy,” Flint says, like this is a normal way to interact. It’s clear he’s not going to pay Silver any more mind, not now, as the harbormaster leaves, with another lingering look at Silver.

 

He bends down again, scoops up the last loose line, as Billy keeps on walking. There’s only one line holding him to the dock, now, and Silver eyes it. 

 

Silver says, “Captain Flint, is it?”

  
  
“No.”

 

“I _do_ hope you're a better captain than liar.”

 

"For the last time, I'm not interested _,_ " the captain bites out, with a note of finality, before he pulls a loop in the rope connecting him to the dock, setting the boat free.

 

The boat starts to drift away, and Flint picks up the rudder, sliding it into place on the back of the boat. But before it can go too far, Silver quickly puts his prosthetic foot on the railing.

 

The boat tilts, but stops moving.

 

"Get," the captain says, "Your foot. Off. My ship."

 

"Captain Flint," Silver says conversationally, aiming to keep his balance and mostly succeeding, “My name is John Silver. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

 

 

 




 

 

 

Flint strides into the office. It’s mostly empty, being a Friday afternoon with many months until the election, but there’s a sole man manning the desk near the main office. "You," he barks at the receptionist, "Is he in?"

 

The man’s eyes go nervously from Flint to the closed office door behind him, and then back to him like he doesn’t want to keep him out of his sight. "He is, but - "

 

"Is he in a meeting?"

 

“No, sir, but - wait -  “

 

Flint walks right by him despite his protests, and he goes through.

 

Letting it close behind him, his back to the wood, Flint asks, "What's the sentence for assault and battery?"

 

"Anywhere from a fine to twenty years," Thomas answers easily. He's sitting in one of the chairs by the window, his laptop and papers in front of him, sleeves rolled up on his forearms. "Not counting civil damages. Was there intent? A weapon? A body?"

 

"It was very intentional," Flint says. He can hear the receptionist mutter something as he walks away from the closed door. "I pushed a man into the ocean."

 

"That's not too bad," Thomas says, and he looks at Flint up and down, as if appraising. "I could get you off."

 

"Hilarious," Flint says dryly, and he crosses the room at last. “You've never made  _that_ joke." 

 

Thomas grins as he comes close. He reaches for him, hands to both Flint's elbows those last few inches. "Come here," he says, and he tilts his face up, inviting.

 

Flint presses a kiss to his mouth, then another just on his forehead. "Sorry if I'm interrupting anything," he says apologetically, pulling away, "I think your receptionist thinks I'm murdering you in here."

 

"He'll manage," Thomas says, leaning back, hands falling from Flint's arms. "But did you really push a man into the ocean?"

 

"He was asking around about the shark attacks," Flint tells him. Leaning back against Thomas’s desk, he scoffs. "Apparently he had been circling around all the boats all afternoon.”

 

"Was he a journalist of some sort?"

 

"He said he was interested in that shark bounty," Flint says, "And since when was there a _bounty_?"

 

"Rogers announced it yesterday,” Thomas says, “Half a million dollars to bring that poor creature in. It doesn't surprise me that people are coming in for that chance - they asked my office for a statement about it today."

 

"It can’t be a shark," Flint mutters, “What kind of shark goes after people? There's something - "

 

"Fishy about it?"

 

"Hey," Flint says, tugging at his tie. "Something about him was off, even before I may have - aided in his descent into the water.”

 

"Oh, you have misgivings about some strange man who shows up in town and wants to collect money off an ill-fated hunt for some animal, who has likely been implicated in some grand scheme that they are not responsible for?” Thomas finishes this with his television smile.

 

"He was also wearing mirrored sunglasses," Flint says. “I don’t trust that.”

 

"This town, I tell you," Thomas says. He rises, grabbing his suit coat off the back of his chair. "Come on, tell me more about it over dinner?"

 

He’d told Hal he’d come over with his dock dues for the month this evening, but Flint can’t find it in himself to care too much about that. "Wining and dining your Covina constituents, are you?"

 

"You live just over the town line, unfortunately,” Thomas tells him as he opens the door. "A shame. You could be my winning vote."

 

"Awfully bold of you to assume that I would vote for you, Mr. Hamilton," Flint throws right back, and Thomas's laugh follows him out the office door.

 

"Have a nice day, sir," the receptionist calls out, nervously, after him, and Flint barely resists rolling his eyes at him.

 

 

 

 




 

 

 

"There's been a bit of an issue," Silver says, wiping his face. He's back at the motel, the air conditioner in the corner rather fruitlessly chugging in the window. "The only captain who would give me the time of day, there? He's not exactly a team player."

 

“What did you say to him?”

 

“Nothing!”

 

Madi says, “Hm.”

 

"He pushed me off the goddamn dock," Silver says, incredulous, "I belly flopped. He could’ve damaged my leg!”

 

“I’m sure it did,” she says, her tone half comforting, half absolutely her making fun of him. Silver pictures the twist to her mouth that she probably has right now, sitting in one of her work shirt dresses, probably on that dusty couch in the front room. There’s that familiar ache rising in his chest, as she makes some small noise when he continues - god, he misses her so much.

 

"I mean, he literally pushed me in," Silver says into the phone. He scratches at his chest, still stinging a little. “What is he, ten?”

 

“You can always leave,” Madi points out. “It was your idea to try to con your way into a bounty.”

 

“Oh, I’m not going to try to con,” Silver says confidently, “I’m going to catch a shark, collect that check, and cash it before the killer shark finds their next meal. That’s a promise.”

 

“Your eventual bail is going to have to come out of your own pocket,” Madi says, “Just so you know.”

 

“Ugh,” Silver says, running the damp hand towel over his face again. He hates how the humidity seems to seep through his pores, make him crave fresh, cold air, or maybe just an end to his suffering. "How hard can it be to hunt some shark? Maybe I should just go out on my own - I mean, a boat’s like a car, right?”

 

“I’m not going to encourage this.”

 

"I’ll just have to convince him,” Silver tells her. “As you know, I’m a difficult person not to like.”

 

“Good god,” Madi says. “I’ll be displeased if I have to fly down there to identify your body.”

 

“I’ll check in,” Silver promises, grimacing when the air conditioner grinds to a halt, across the room. “You’ll get a fair amount of warning before you have to go to any morgue.”

 

“I’ll hold you to that.” There’s a little static over the line, for a second, as Madi pauses. “After all this, are you coming back?”

  
  
Without the fan, he’s aware of his own breathing. “Back?”

  
  
“I thought I would ask,” Madi says. “You have friends here, you know - even if we aren’t. If it's about the money - "

 

“They’re more like your friends.” Silver doesn’t intend it to come out so sharp, but Madi doesn’t make a sound in reply. “I don’t know. I guess I'll see when it comes to that." 

 

“John - “

 

“I have to go fix this fan,” Silver says, suddenly, “I’ll talk to you later,” and he hangs up, before she can say anything else.

 

Across the room, the tiny light on top of the air conditioner blinks on, off, made bright in the shadow underneath the window curtains. Letting the towel flop to the ground, Silver leans back until his head meets the hard surface of the mattress, and he breathes in deeply.

 

Then coughs just as quickly, because there was definitely a layer of dust on the comforter he had failed to take into account. This place likely rarely sees out of town guests, after all, so he’s not too surprised. Small towns - all seemingly quaint on the surface, with unknown predators lurking just beneath the depths. If he’s been to one, he’s been to them all -

 

That strikes an idea in him, suddenly. Someone as abrasive as that Captain Flint - well, what’s the chance that he’s the kind of man that people know about in this town? The key to convincing someone, after all, is finding what they want - and that, he knows how to do.

 

This train of thought finds Silver in the bar across the street from the seedy motel. He settles down on a stool, smiling just so at the bored-looking bartender who’s cleaning out highball glasses with a ratty towel.

 

“Hello,” Silver says. He glances around, at the few people milling about, says, “You know, I just _love_ finding these charming watering holes, wherever I go. How long have you been here?”

 

“A while,” the bartender says rather flatly, setting down a glass. “What can I get you?”

 

“Whatever you have on tap,” Silver tells, and he leans forward with another, slower smile. “And your drink of choice, for you of course. What’s your name?”

 

A few drinks later, the bartender is laughing along with him, towel long abandoned in favor of conversation. They’ve been joined by some of the people at the bar, coaxed over when Silver offers to buy them a drink - in celebration of closing a business deal, he tells them, that had taken him to Covina in the first place.

 

“Now,” Silver continues, “I was passing by the docks, thought I’d ask someone for directions - and, well, unlike all of you friends, he was just so disagreeable - "

 

The bartender snorts. “Those fishermen? Not exactly an open sort." 

 

“- why, I thought I’d done something to offend him,” Silver says, snapping his fingers. “Ah, I’m blanking on his name - Flame? Flynn? Fl - “

 

“Flint?” one of the man supplies, and Silver treats him with a broad smile, “From the Walrus? Oh, man, he’s a piece of work. Nearly took a bat to my windshield when I scuffed that boat of his - “

 

“ - my cousin, yeah, he swears that Flint has some uncanny sense of when it’s gonna storm, says all those fishermen listen to him and him alone - “

 

“Have you seen him? That man is always lurking about - “

 

Plied with alcohol, and with this opportunity to vent to a stranger, the crowd is more than willing to share. Silver sits back, and he listens.

 

 

 

 

•

 

 

 

 

There’s another shark attack overnight. Some poor man - or rather, what was left of him - washes up on the east beach.

 

The image of the man’s boat being towed back in - the stern mostly torn off, an enticing streak of blood on the inside - becomes viral. The news reporter on the television is nearly salivating with the promise of a dangerous predator, loose in the water, just threatening everyone’s livelihood and so on.

 

They haven’t identified who it was, but Flint has heard on the grapevine that it’s one of the fishermen, a man he probably vaguely knows from Billy or Hal. But Covina is a quiet oceanside town, usually, and the promise of a news story other than the rising price of tomatoes (up three cents from last year) has everyone in a frenzy.

 

“We have our experts already tracking the shark,” Rogers says smoothly, his face blown up on the screen, “And rest assured, we will make sure the people of Covina feel safe in this trying time. Despite my highly popular campaign for mayor right now, I am making time for the people in this town - as such, my team will be handing out emergency whistles this afternoon, so that your children can feel safe on all of our beautiful beaches.”

 

Flint scowls and turns off the television. “Out of all the people,” he mutters as he gets his keys, “He should be the one to get eaten by a shark.”

 

 

 




 

 

 

Without the sun beating down from overhead, Silver supposes he can start to see the appeal of the boating life. The docks are quiet in the morning light, with only a few fishermen heading out now to get the early catch. Of course, there's the sound of movement coming from inside the Walrus, still at the end of the dock from when he last visited a few days ago, as he approaches.

 

"Hello there," Silver says, loudly. "Remember me? John Silver.“

 

"Jesus Christ," Flint says, having jerked his head up and hit on the top of the entrance down to the boat. "What the fuck's the matter with you?"

 

"I'll save you the banter and get right to it," Silver says brazenly. "Do you know how much money the shark bounty is as of this morning?”

 

"I really don't care - "

 

“It's now two point six million dollars," Silver tells him, and Flint stops rubbing his head. "Split two ways - that's quite a chunk of change, is it not, for any shark that we could claim is the beast?”

 

He just scowls. "I'm not some charity case - and would you get your _foot_ off my _boat_ \- "

 

Silver elects to climb on board instead. Flint says, “And what do you think you’re - “

 

"You know," Silver says conversationally, "I was able to chat a bit with some lovely people last night from around here, did some digging. You know what I found interesting?"

 

"Oh, I'm sure you'll enlighten me,” Flint says, in nearly a growl. He takes a step forward.

 

“You have quite the reputation, captain,” Silver says, shifting so his back’s against the mast, “A bit of a loner, definitely on the more... defensive side, if I can say so. I heard all about what people say about you around here, so I did some searching of my own - “  

  
Something in Flint’s expression turns to menacing and Silver quickly makes sure he’s close enough to the mast so that he doesn’t get pushed off again. “And yet, Mr. Silver,” he says, “I find myself plagued with your company. Now, I would suggest that you leave - “

 

“You don’t seem the sort to get involved with town business,” Silver says. “Are you particularly political, captain?”

 

The question seems to catch him off guard, and Silver goes for it. "You’ve given a good amount of money to a political candidate here in town," Silver says, “One Thomas Hamilton. Old friend?”

 

The name makes Flint stop from where he’s slowly advancing on him. “I’m not sure what you think you're implying - "

 

"Over a million dollars," Silver says conversationally, "That's a lot of money to aid a campaign, right? Especially to get rid of the incumbent mayor - he’s got friends in all the right places, the right pockets. I'm sure Mr. Hamilton would love to get that kind of cash on his hands, and given the extent of your support, you seem very intent on aiding him, am I right? Or does the tour business pay much more than I would wager?" 

 

“Are you seriously suggesting that I would hunt a shark with you, to collect a vast sum of money, to donate it all to a political campaign?”

 

“Did I mention that you’d be taking money from said mayor, to in essence oust him?” Silver offers. “Now, I wasn’t able to ascertain your motivation for your support for Hamilton, but anyone could tell me about the lack of love lost between you and Mayor Rogers. I have to wonder - “

 

Flint interrupts him. “And what about you?”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “What about me?”

 

“What do you want with that bounty?”

 

“Well,” Silver says, “Nothing quite as noble as politics, and nothing too damaging as - well, politics.” He’s been running blind when it comes to Flint, but whatever he’s said seems to have worked. Flint’s looking at him, actually looking like he’s considering it, and Silver, well, he will take it. “Well?”

 

Flint eyes him. “And what - I’m supposed to trust you?”

 

“I think you’ll find that past a million dollars, you can buy whatever comfort you need in order to do it,” Silver tells him. “And here I am, just promising you money up front - really, you’re the one to benefit immediately, with the possibility of so much more for both of us.”

 

He grins, and Flint’s eyes narrow even more. But he’s not actively lunging for Silver, which he’ll take as a win even if it’s still not enough. He knows when to step back, let them think that they’re the one in control of the situation.

 

“I’ll let you think about it,” Silver says, stepping back off the boat. He even manages to neatly land back on the dock - his day really is looking up. “I’ll find you again tomorrow.”

 

 

 

•

 

 

 

 

Flint must be out of his goddamn mind, because he’s still thinking about it long after he leaves. The idiot leaves before Flint could get pissed with him and call it off, but his stupid, wide, bright grin when Flint hadn’t completely chased him away makes him think that he knows that Flint is this close to agreeing.

 

Which, he’s not - but he also, sort of unforgivably, is.

 

He calls Thomas that night, as usual, and within five minutes of the conversation, Thomas seems to know that something’s up. “I can hear you fidgeting over the line,” he says plainly.

 

“The man I told you about,” Flint says, “And did you know that the shark bounty is over two million dollars?”

 

In the background, he can hear a faucet running, before Thomas whistles. “And suddenly, you’re a little glad you didn’t kill him?”

 

“I mean, I don’t trust him at all,” Flint says, “But he’s willing to pay me just to search for the thing. Poor shark’s the least of it, I’m just amazed not everyone with a kayak is out there trying to search for her.”

 

“Probably because most people have a healthy fear of sharks that bite people in two,” Thomas says. “Augustus said his girlfriend’s uncle has been losing tourists these past few weeks, especially since that last one. I didn’t know sharks could sink boats.”

 

“They usually don’t,” Flint says, adjusting the phone. “Who’s Augustus?”

 

“He’s the man you scare on a habitual basis, storming into my palace and demanding an audience,” Thomas says dryly. “You’re lucky you’re handsome enough that I let it slide.”

 

“My eternal thanks,” Flint says, then frowns down at the soup he’s stirring. “Sharks going after people like that, it’s all kinds of suspicious. But if some idiot’s willing to pay me to schlep him around the bay for a day, then I think I should take it.”

 

“Are you asking me for my opinion, or thinking out loud here?”

 

“Thinking out loud,” Flint admits. “Though if you have an opinion, I’d be glad to hear it.”

 

“Oh, I’ve never had an opinion in my life,” Thomas says innocently, and then something clangs in the background. “Oh - for fuck’s sake - “

 

“Don’t burn down your house,” Flint tells him fondly, just as the phone line goes dead. “Love you.”

 

 

 

 




 

 

 

 

There’s another benefit to the shark bounty. Flint would get to collect that check from Woodes Rogers, and he would have to grin and bear lauding praise onto Flint for saving the town, or whatever one does when they've successfully hunted a shark that's been killing people. Or at least stand by, and try to look just a little less constipated about it - likely a feat for him. 

 

See, there’s three things that Flint knows about Covina. One, anything pork from the burger joint on East Boulevard will undoubtedly give you food poisoning. Two, everyone knows that some pretty shady things happen in the marina, and if you come across anyone there at one in the morning, you don’t testify in court about it later.

 

And three - Mayor Rogers is a duplicitous, slimy, piece of trash, and Flint would love to see him have to grin and hand over a huge check to him, any day. He didn’t spent ten years in the Navy without picking up a few skills, one of which is sensing which kind of people deserve to be tossed into a big body of water, for the public good - public discomfort of any kind, even. So it's kind of like some excellent, karmic revenge. 

 

So yeah, he's thinking about the bounty. Even if it means possibly committing manslaughter by agreeing to work with John Silver - there is a benefit, there. 

 

Flint does a quick search for Silver that night, which turns into two hours of Flint combing the internet for any mention of who he is. There’s a chef by his name out of Vancouver, a bartender in Cleveland, a distant relative of the Spanish royal family - but none of those titles feel right.

 

He even considers doing a background check, but decides against it. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to want to have plausible deniability. He wouldn’t be surprised if the man broke out a white collar prison somewhere, and fuck if Flint is going to judge for avoiding bounty hunters. Even if he entirely understands whoever had the urge to throw him in a prison, he means.

 

 

 

 




 

 

 

The terms of the deal are laid out before Flint even lets Silver put a finger on his boat again. He’ll tow Silver around for three days, having been paid in full upon each morning that they set out. Silver, in turn, will choose whether or not this is a lost venture, and he will be prepared to pay for any damages to the boat should they attempt to catch the shark.

 

 

(“How much is she even worth?” Silver says, looking at the Walrus with no small amount of incredulity.

 

“We’re not going shark hunting in a fifteen-foot sailboat,” Flint snaps. “We’re taking the Eurydice.” She’s a small motorboat that Flint bought from Hal a few years ago - great for whipping tourists around the bay when necessary.

 

“Awfully tragic of a name to be searching for something, isn’t it?”

 

“Take it or leave it.”)

 

 

“And you won’t push me into the water,” Silver says, and widens his eyes when Flint glares at him. “I want that in writing.”

 

“We leave at four,” Flint tells him.

 

“Four in the morning?”

 

“They’re active at dawn and dusk,” Flint says, “If you’re late, it’s off.”

 

“You wound me,” Silver says, putting his hand on his chest. He’s wearing a shredded-looking tank top that bares an awful lot of tanned, taut skin when he moves his arms - and he is in no way ever going to think about that, ever again, nope.

 

Especially when Silver asks, wide-eyed, “So do we use regular fishing rods, or should I bring some kind of net with me?”

 

Flint levels a look at him instead, reminds him, “Four on the dot. And - wear some real clothes, will you?”

 

“Aye-aye, captain,” Silver says, and Flint seriously considers pushing him off the dock again. But then Silver extends a sun-tanned arm, and Flint thinks he must be getting a lot stupider with age, as he shakes his hand, Silver’s dumb face stretching out over a much too broad grin - knowing, too, because he sways a little when he walks away. 

 

Goddamn it. 

 

 

 




 

 

Madi doesn't answer her phone that night, so Silver leaves her a long voicemail. 

 

"So if I go missing, you know who to come to hunt down for my honor," he finishes. "He's about six foot, short reddish hair, kind of looks like he's about snap all the time - you know, now that I'm thinking about it, kind of weirdly attractive in a way that you wouldn't guess, but really not worth the drama - okay, anyways, I'll call back tomorrow, hopefully while on the private plane I'm going to buy first with my share of that prize  - " 

 

 

    •

 

 

 

Silver arrives at the docks at precisely thirteen seconds before his watch reads four o’clock.

 

“Morning,” he says with a touch too much chipper in his voice, striding down the planks as Flint works to untie the Eurydice. “Need a hand?”

 

“Just get on board,” Flint says grimly, looking as though he had half bet on Silver not showing up, and now is already a losing man at this early hour. “Don’t touch anything.”

 

Silver sits on the edge on the boat, swings his leg over. The motion pulls up his jeans, revealing the metal of his prosthetic leg as he lands with a thump on the boat.

 

He didn’t think much about it, but he sees the way that the leg catches Flint’s eye. Flint opens his mouth, then closes it, as if deliberating on what to say.

 

“Before you ask,” Silver interjects, “Yes, I was born with it.”

 

That breaks any tension. Flint rolls his eyes. “It’s your funeral, wearing jeans out on the water.”

 

“That sounds rather ominous,” Silver says. There’s some hideous odor coming from the boat, he realizes, and he wrinkles his nose as he peers around the vessel. “Did something die on here?”

 

“Chum,” Flint says, jerking his chin to the cans that are hanging over the far side of the boat.

 

Silver peers over, and sure enough, there are several vessels stained with blood, now distinctly reeking. “Tell me that’s not made of some unsatisfied customer,” he jokes, sounding a little weak - he’ll blame the smell, thanks.

 

Flint loops the rope around his hands, pushing off the dock and landing neatly next to him on the deck. “You should get used to the smell. I’ll need you to pour it out as we go along.”

 

“You’re joking.”

 

“Sharks like fish parts,” Flint says, taking the helm. The engine roars to life behind them, before settling on a low purr as he keeps it in neutral. “You think one will just conveniently surface for you?”

 

“And what’s the plan for catching this shark, anyway?”

 

“An injection of strychnine,” Flint answers promptly. “Delivered right to the jugular.”

 

“Really?”

 

“No,” Flint says, now with an incredulous look. “We’ll use a net. Are you serious right now?”

 

“You’re the expert here! You’re doing - “ and Silver gestures around at the boat aimlessly, “All the boating-shark-things.”

 

“And what, pray tell, are you bringing to the table, again?”

 

“The lead,” Silver says easily, “And the money.” He plucks out a check from his pocket, presents it. “As promised.”

 

Flint pockets it. “If this bounces - “

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be the one getting strychnine to the jugular,” Silver finishes for him, and Flint huffs. “Get some original threats, would you?”

 

 

 

 




 

 

He didn’t quite predict how much waiting was going to be involved in hunting a shark. They lay out some chum in the outer harbor - Silver tries not to gag as he dumps out bloodied bits and bone into the water behind them, nearly losing his sunglasses in the process. Flint lays out the net, which Silver presumes is in case they see something worth reeling in.

 

They wait, for a while. Flint’s definitely not the chatty sort, but Silver thinks he nearly looks peaceful as he looks out on the water, eyes alert for any sign of activity, but something settled there, in his gaze.

 

Flint declares the area dead within half an hour, and so they motor to another point, out on the open ocean based on some explanation that Flint makes with the charts that Silver quite honestly loses track of during his explanation.

 

The sun rises, and while he’s never been the peaceful sort, Silver can appreciate the view of the clouds being illuminated over the open sea, the sky getting brighter and brighter until the day has struck.  They do the same thing, the chum just as disgusting, the net sinking below the waves. They settle down to wait.

 

That is, until Flint says, “Not here,” and they go again.

 

 

 




 

 

 

“Are you quite sure about this?” Silver tries after the fourth time, and Flint ignores him. 

 

They keep on going until Flint finds a place he deems worthy to wait. Silver half-thinks that he’d be yanking his chain about this, only Flint truly seems to be focused each time that either he’s entirely dedicated to selling this, conning him, or he loses more and more brain cells the longer they spend in the sun.

 

“You think anyone else is going after the shark?” Silver asks sometime in the early afternoon. He wishes he could strip off his jeans too, this point - his shirt long crumpled on the deck - the sun and the salt water making the material feel like it’s been baked into his skin by now. He can kind of see the point about them not being ideal for ocean wear, not that he’d say it out loud, ever. “Any of your fellow sailor friends?”

 

Flint, his back to him from where he’s positioned at the stern, says, “People here keep to their own. If they are, they wouldn’t tell me.”

 

“Sounds lonely.”

 

“I like my privacy.”

 

“So what’s the deal with you and that politician?” Silver asks anyways. “Is Hamilton an old family friend or something?”

 

He’s surprised when something approaching a laugh emerges from Flint’s chest. Silver peers at him from over his sunglasses, but when he doesn’t elaborate, he adds, “Or are you a particularly loyal voter?”

 

That makes another amused sound come from him. “I’m not in his district.” He doesn’t budge, though.

 

“Lot of money to donate to a friend,” Silver says, “Especially since I couldn’t find a photo of the two of you.”

 

“You’re admitting to stalking me right now?”

 

“I like to know who I get into a boat with,” Silver answers, “Are you telling me you didn’t look me up?”

 

He can't see Flint's expression from here, but he hears the scornful sound he makes. They fall into another long silence, the wind and the gentle waves against the boat the only sound.

 

“Okay, how about this,” Silver says after it grows unbearably quiet, “I tell you two lies and a truth, and you try to guess which one’s true.”

 

He nearly expects him to ignore him again. But Flint must be feeling similarly bored, for he says, “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way?”

 

“And now you’re the expert on grade school games, too?” Silver scoffs. “Stay in your lane, old man.”

 

“I’m _not_ \- “

 

“I was born in the back of a moving taxi cab,” Silver says matter-of-factly, glancing over again. “I once dyed my hair blond and liked it. Oh, and I’ve changed my legal name twice.”

 

“How could I possibly know which one is true? I don’t know you.”

 

“You _guess_ , that’s why it’s fun.” Silver watches as Flint reaches around to scratch the back of his neck, which looks a little pink in the sun. “Stumped? You could just guess. I might even tell you if you’re right.”

 

“Watch the water,” Flint retorts. “Or have you forgotten why we’re out here?”

 

“Come on,” Silver says, “I’m starting to understand all the myths about sirens coming about. You spend too long out here, you’d jump overboard just to get a change of scenery. What did you Navy folks do to waste time?”

 

Flint twists around suddenly. If he was going to deny it, it’s clearly a lost battle, as he seems to grapple with the words before demanding, “How do you know that?”

 

“Oh, come on,” Silver says, lifting an eyebrow and pushing his sunglasses down so Flint can see his eyes. “The way you hold yourself, the way you walk on a ship like you’re barking commands? The tattoo you try to hide makes me think it wasn’t the highlight of your life, though.”

 

Given the twitch to Flint’s face, he’s not off the mark. “Given the remnants of your accent that slip out when you’re irritated with me -  let me guess, Her Majesty’s Naval Service?”

 

“I thought we were guessing about your life,” Flint grits out. Clearly, he’s hit a nerve - but he can’t tell if it’s that he got close enough with his guesses, or if it’s something else.

 

“Oh, those were all lies,” Silver says easily. “Now, do you know Hamilton from your naval days?”

 

He wonders if he’s pressed too far - pressed too many buttons in a short interval, testing, calculating. But Flint just turns back around after another long moment, returns to staring back at the ocean.

 

Silver says, “What, am I just supposed to sit here, wondering with my thoughts?”

 

Flint doens’t say anything. He presses, “Am I right?”

 

Flint says, “Keep wondering, Mr. Silver.”

 

 

 

 




 

 

 

 

By the time the sun sets, they haven’t seen a single fin.

 

Flint orders him to help him gather up the net, the chum barrels empty. He hasn’t spoken more than two or three words since Silver had pushed him, earlier.

 

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” Flint tells him, before setting them both back in the direction of the bay. Silver perches on the edge of the boat, feeling the wind whistle through his hair as they crest through the water.

 

At night, the ocean spreads out glassy-dark and endless ahead of them. Other than the lights on the markers alerting them to the rocks and the shoreline, you can barely distinguish the sky from the water out here.

 

“You know,” Silver says, pitching his voice just a little above the roar of the engine, “I just got divorced.”

 

“Shocker,” Flint says flatly, which, fair enough.

 

“We got married young, first,” Silver says, then huffs a little laugh. “Second time, we got back together, because she’s the love of my life - and I thought that might be enough. We’ve gotten married and divorced twice, and I think we’re both bad at committing either way.”

 

Maybe it’s because Flint senses that this isn’t like before, or maybe he’s grown tired to the silence, too, because when Silver doesn’t go on, he prompts, “What’s your point?”

 

“Hamilton’s like that for you, isn’t he?” Silver asks, going out on a limb. He can’t read Flint’s expression in the low light. “Minus the divorces. You look at him, and you wonder how you got to be that lucky bastard - or did something drive you two together?”

 

Flint doesn’t say anything. Silver presses, “Come on, is this going to be a kind of situation where you want to lie and tell me he’s my _,_ quote, _lifetime roommate,_ unquote? I’ll read between the lines.”

 

It’s like he can hear Flint’s molars grinding together. He says, rather curtly, “He’s my partner.”

 

“Ah.” Silver waits about ten seconds, to Flint’s pointed silence, before saying, “If this is something you prefer to keep on the down low, rest assured, I - “

 

“If you’re about to say,  _sorry I pried into your personal business,_ so help me, I will throw you into the net - “

 

“I was going to say thank you for telling me,” Silver finishes. “You know. It’s not every day you go shark hunting with someone, after all.”

 

“It isn’t.”

 

“We should be friends. Bond over our complicated backstories.”

 

“Silver.”

 

“Okay, colleagues,” Silver says. “Unless you want to talk about it.”

 

“I’d like a shark to come and, most exceptionally to their behavioral standards, come and chew apart this ship to get out of this conversation.”

 

“That happened, you know. That last victim.”

 

“What part of _shark attack_ did you miss?”

 

 

 

 




 

 

 

 

Flint reduces the speed of the engine as they get closer to the coast. The lights from shore blink in the distance where the harbor beckons, a welcome respite from the dark lines of the open sea.

 

“No late owls out here, huh,” Silver says. He hasn’t seen another boat around for a while, and with the engine reduced, he’s aware of just how quiet it is. “So what - “

 

He’s cut off by the sound of something crunching, and then, the boat is lurching forward. Silver falls forward, leg banging painfully into the rail as he catches himself, swearing as he ends up half on the ground.

 

Flint, having clung onto the steering wheel, looks around, ducking low as well. “What - “

 

“Oh god, tell me that’s not some huge shark,” Silver says. “So help me, if we just hit a shark -  or got _hit_ by one - “

 

“Silver, shut up,” Flint orders, and he flips some switch on the dashboard in front of the wheel, cutting the engine too in a quick motion. Their running lights go off, though not before he catches the look on Flint's face of utter bemusement, and they’re cast into complete darkness, as well as silence.

 

“How’s that going to help?” Silver hisses.

 

“Something’s not right,” Flint says. Silver can just barely make out his profile from the dim orange emergency lights from below, casting the lines of his nose and jaw in sharp contrast to the rest of his features. Distantly, he can hear some voice -  echoing all the way from shore? 

 

Just as he speaks, there’s some muffled sound that echoes, like a pop that ricochets around them. Silver barely has a moment to react before Flint’s flinging himself forward, pushing Silver the rest of the way to the ground and landing on the ground beside him.

 

“If you’re telling me that sharks _shoot people now_ ,” Silver shouts as the popping noise gets louder and louder, and holy shit, that’s _gunfire_ , “I’m just gonna quit while I’m ahead here _\-  “_

 

 _“_ Get down,” Flint orders, and looking like the exact opposite of the self-preservation instincts that Silver has spent years honing, he pokes his head above the rail.

 

A hole appears in the boat next to him, and Silver seizes his shirt, tugging him back down. “Did you see where it’s coming from?”

 

“No clue,” Flint says, and then he’s inching forward. “In the box - to the left - “

 

Silver spies it, and he’s able to slide up on the deck enough to seize it, pushing it back towards Flint. The man spins some lock, popping it open, and he pulls out a pistol.

 

“Oh my god,” Silver says, “ _Why do you have that_?”

 

“I was in the goddamn Navy!”

 

“You’re a _fisherman_ now!”

 

Flint ignores him in favor of lifting the pistol, and he fires back into the night, before ducking back behind their small shelter from the bullets. Some small, hysterical part of Silver’s brain makes him truly wonder - and regret - the decisions that had led him here.

 

He _hates_ Covina.

 

There’s some shouting, voices he doesn’t recognize, and then their deck is illuminated by a bright light. It’s a much bigger boat,  he realizes, and it’s headed straight for them.

 

“Smugglers,” Flint says grimly. “We must have walked in the middle of something. Wrong place, wrong time.“

 

“And they just started _shooting at us_?”

 

“Silver,” Flint says, “On the count of three, you’re going to push forward on the throttle, and hold onto the wheel until I come to get it from you. You are not going to look at that boat.”

 

Silver’s eyes dart between him and the steering wheel that’s now closest to him. “What - “

 

“One,” Flint says, “Two - “ and as soon as Flint’s mouth starts to open on _three_ , Silver’s diving forward, his hand curling around the throttle and he’s pushing it down as far as he can reach. 

 

The boat jolts forward, the engine roaring to life. Silver can barely hear Flint shouting something, anything over the thrumming sound, as the boat races forward. He can hear bullets ricocheting around them, shattering the glass around the cabin enclosure. He plasters himself as low as he can to the wheel when he can nearly feel them whizzing by his head.

 

The light flashes over their deck again, and then again, and then they’re cast into darkness once again, the other boat behind them. Silver nudges the throttle even more, just as something explodes behind him, and then he’s being thrown violently to the side  -

 

 

 

 




 

 

 

 

He comes to, and the sun is shining overhead.

 

Silver squints, patting the top of his head for his sunglasses on reflex, but they’re nowhere to be found. The boat rolls underneath him, the waves rocking him back and forth for a good few moments as he lies there.

 

Then he remembers the situation just before lights-out, and he covers his eyes with his hands. “Oh,” he says, “Did I die?”

 

“Not quite,” Flint’s voice says, and Silver uncovers his eyes. He’s sitting across from him on the other side of the boat. There’s a tear in his sleeve, a splotch of dark red that Silver blinks and focuses on. “You got knocked out. You might have a mild concussion.”

 

“Um,” Silver says, staring at his sleeve. “Tell me that’s from the chum.”

 

“No, but it’s just a flesh wound,” Flint says, sounding so close to conversational and _normal_ that Silver instinctively knows something has gone very, very wrong, even if he isn’t bleeding out from a bullet right then and there.

 

“Is there someone standing behind me with a gun to my head? Break it to me now."

 

“It's just you and me,” Flint says, still sounding like it’s a hostage situation.

 

“The suspense is killing me." Now Silver can see the wrecked fiberglass around them, the clear bullet holes in the deck from last night - the telling silence of the motor. “Would you just tell me - "

 

“We’re stranded,” Flint confirms promptly, shifting his weight a little as he moves his hands out to the front of him. “Our engine blew up. We have some rations and water below, but we lost the radios.”

 

“Of course,” Silver echoes, staring out at the vast expanse of ocean around them now. And that’s when he sees the fins poking up out of the waves, darting around them.

 

“The good news is that you’ll see, we are surrounded by sharks,” Flint says.

 

And what did he do, to deserve his life becoming a C-list horror flick?

 

“You and I have a very different idea of _good news_ ,” Silver tells him, only managing to control some of the hysteria that wells up into his voice. 


	2. Chapter 2

  
Being marooned at sea is far less of a dramatic experience than he would have expected, at first.

 

Flint heads into the cabin in an attempt to piece together the radio, or perhaps just to do something rather than watch Silver descend into a state of madness. He seems to be taking the entire situation with remarkable control, or perhaps he’s just much better at pushing down the knee-jerk reaction of _oh my god we are literally being circled by sharks we’re gonna die out here and no one will know what happened_ -

 

“We have a flare gun,” Flint says, his voice muffled, “Two shots. You’ll be keeping an eye out for now. If you see something - “

 

“Say something, yeah, yeah,” Silver says, before Flint lifts his head once again. “How far could we be?”

 

“We’ve been floating throughout the night,” Flint answers, digging through the storage compartments in the cabin. “With the local currents, we’ll be pushed up north for a bit, hopefully get closer to land or a shipping route.”

 

Silver watches as he unearths a stack of nautical maps, well-creased on the edges. “And if we don’t?”

 

“I’ll map our position,” Flint says, focused on the map, and he thinks it’s likely more him answering automatically than really caring to share. But then his eyes go up to meet Silver’s. “Watch the horizon off the bow. If you think you see something - “

 

“What about the sharks?”

 

His reply is curt. “Not our most immediate concern.”

 

“That’s not quite the confident answer I’d like to hear. What about the people who were shooting at us?”

 

“Silver,” Flint says, “Take the flare gun.”

 

He takes it.

 

 

 

 

  
•

 

 

 

  
He’s not going to die on a boat with John Silver. He’s not going to die on a boat with John Silver. He’s not going -

 

For not the first time in his life, Flint wonders if someone up there has it in for him. Maybe his grandfather, that miserable old man, has finally made good on his promise to exact some kind of hellish revenge.

 

He thinks about Thomas for a brief, fleeting second, before pushing the image of his face away. He can’t get distracted now. He can’t think about anything else, not when he needs to figure out how to get out of this mess.

 

As best as he can tell, they did drift up north. After the engine had exploded and Silver had been knocked unconscious, Flint had crouched down on the damp, dark, deck, waiting for the gunfire to return.

 

But they must have just managed to get far enough away to escape detection. Without any lights on - and Flint is so glad that he’d put off replacing the reflective tape around the railing - they had been reduced to an impossible target, slipping away to the ocean. Now, with his pair of emergency binoculars, Flint scans the horizon for any sign of other boats. The land has long slipped away, but he knows that on a cloudy day like this, the visibility could be reduced.

 

He retreats into the cabin before long. They have emergency supplies in the cabin, enough water for a few days. There’s still gasoline in the busted engine, though when Flint had inspected it, the machine itself is beyond repair. They might be able to put together a makeshift sail, collect some water to strain with the use of the chum tanks -

 

“Hey,” Silver calls from where he’s on the deck, just staring at the sharks circling them most likely, “Will we need to be fishing?”

 

Flint keeps his eyes on the nautical chart he’s got splayed out on the surface above the steering column. “That would be a waste of our time.”

 

“We could try to catch a shark,” Silver says. “You know. Like one of the ones that are surrounding us. And by we, I mean you with the gun.”

 

Flint doesn’t dignify that with a response.

 

“They’re big sharks,” Silver calls back, sounding more distant, “That means they’re really old, yeah? Docile?”

 

Without looking up, Flint automatically corrects, “They age sharks from the layers in their vertebrae. You can count the bands based on the deposition rate for each species.”

 

There’s a huff. “Okay, professor,” Silver says, “Are we doing this?”

 

“Don’t. They’re apex predators,” Flint says, flipping the paper. “That means their meat would be filled with mercury.”

 

“ _Stranded_ beggars can’t be choosy - don’t you have any sailor’s tales about catching sharks?”

 

“We have a few emergency meal kits,” Flint replies. There’s a bullet hole through this map, and he fingers the ragged edge of it. “We should be more concerned as to why someone was shooting at us right now.”

 

He says it with perhaps more terseness than is absolutely required. There are footsteps, and Flint looks up just as Silver stands in the doorway to the cabin. “You mean, why someone was shooting at you,” he says, very nearly icily.

 

It’s no sense to lose his temper. He’s very nearly been shot, and he should conserve his energy as much as possible. Flint counts to five, then says very evenly, “Why would you say that?”

  
“Well, I know of no one that would have any reason to be shooting at me, to start,” Silver says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “So that narrows down the list quite a fair amount.”

 

“No one knew that we were going to be there. We walked into something we shouldn’t have witnessed,” Flint says. He can feel a headache forming in his temples. “So unless you saw something else - “

 

“No, I didn’t see anything - “

 

“It’s pointless to wonder,” Flint cuts in. He’s in no mood to talk, let alone argue, even as it makes Silver’s eyes flash. “Go back out there, watch for any passing ships.”

 

Silver makes some incredulous, angry sound, but just as quick as he had appeared, he turns around to face the stern once again, stepping back into the sunlight. His reply comes a few moments later, just as terse, “And what are you going to do?”

 

He’s going to figure out how to get them out of this mess. But first, “I’ll set up the water filtration system,” Flint says, trying not to sound as weary as he feels. “Then we’ll sleep in shifts.”

 

Silver mutters something under his breath that he can’t quite catch, and he decides that it’s best he didn’t hear.

 

 

 

  
•

 

 

 

  
With the first aid kit, Flint bandages his arm, dabbing precious antibiotic ointment on the scrape that the bullet left, before drinking some of the water. There’s a sling folded up in the first aid box as well, which he uses in order to restrict the motion of his arm as to aid in the healing.

 

Then, with Silver still staring over the stern outside, his own water in hand, he falls asleep.

 

When Flint wakes up once again, the sun is much lower in the sky, visible from the open space where the glass used to be. The waves are bigger, now, the rocking motion of the boat more and more.

 

He closes his eyes again for a brief moment, chasing the remnants of his dream where he was anywhere but trapped on the Eurydice.

 

“I found something incredibly vital to our survival,” Silver says from right next to him, evidently having moved inside the cabin. He’s got a shrewd look on his face, as Flint pretends like he didn’t startle.

 

He sits up instead. “Did you see something?”

 

“No. But I did find emergency alcohol,” Silver says, and he holds up an amber bottle. Flint recognizes it as a gift that Hal had given him a few years back - now covered in dust. “I presume that’s why you were hiding it.”

 

“We shouldn’t,” Flint says. “We need to stay alert, and we don’t want to risk dehydration - “

 

“Yeah, we nearly died,” Silver tells him. “Come on. Do you really want to be sober right now?”

 

Flint scoffs, but before he can say anything, there’s a low thump coming from somewhere underneath the boat.

 

They both jump. Silver says, “Was that - “

 

There’s another thump then, from the other side. They look at each other, then quickly get up and rush out into the open.

 

Flint scans the water, leaning over to try to catch a glimpse, his gun in his hand. “It could just be the shark nudging us,” he says, “Trying to figure out what we are. Probably harmless.”

 

“Do I want to know the alternative?” Silver leans over too.

 

He’s not going to mince it. “It could be charging us,” Flint says bluntly. “Which, in that case - “

 

The shark bumps their boat again, and Silver clutches onto the railing. Flint reaches out to hold on, too, but he misjudges the jarring motion as the shark hits into them yet again.

 

With his other arm in the sling, he feels his foot slip on the edge, and he’s falling -

 

The salt water stings his eyelids, as he scrabbles with his arm trapped against his chest. Flint coughs, surfacing above the waves, just as another one slaps him across the face. He's lost the gun, too, but he thinks he has bigger concerns right about now. 

 

Flint struggles to pull his arm free, to try to tread water, attempting to float up on his back to avoid getting flipped around. The wound in his arm radiates pain up his arm, the bandages immediately waterlogged and starting to unravel.

 

Then he feels something brush by his legs. Flint’s blood runs cold. He’s actively bleeding in water, with at least one shark in close proximity- he needs to get out -

 

He hears some shout, loud enough to be heard over the water that’s in his ears, and then there’s something seizing his shoulders, just as something bumps into him, hard. Flint scrabbles, only for Silver to shout right into his ear, “Hold _on_ \- “

 

Flint coughs again, and he’s being hoisted out of the water. He’s not quite sure what’s happening until he lands with a crash back onto the fiberglass deck of the Eurydice, now blinking up at the sky as he wheezes, the breath caught in his lungs.

 

Silver falls next to him, his hair plastered to his head. They’re both panting hard, the deck hard and welcome against their backs. Flint turns his head, choking out a little more sea water, his chest and shoulder throbbing right along his racing heart.

 

“Jesus fuck,” Silver says, sounding more than a little breathless. Their shoulders are pressed together on the wet deck, Silver’s tanned shoulder against the sticky material of Flint’s shirt. He turns his head just as Flint does, and for a long moment, they blink at each other.

 

Silver says, “I thought you said we were going to use a net to catch one,” and Flint is caught off guard at his own laugh, hoarse and a little loud.

 

“Next time,” Flint says, and he sees Silver’s mouth curl up into a grin. He closes his eyes, lets his head thud back once again, and he can hear Silver do the same.

 

 

 

 

•

 

 

 

  
When the sun sets, Silver watches as Flint lights the engine on fire. The remnants of gasoline go up quickly, as Flint steps back, his profile illuminated by the flames. The bright light will hopefully serve as some marker for someone out there to see.

 

The sunset also serves to mask the fins that were visible above the waves, and they’ve been lucky in that the shark seems to have decided to stop bumping the Eurydice. That, or they’re slowly sinking and the sharks are just biding their time, which Silver secretly expects (and suspects Flint would say something scathing in rebuttal, should he voice it out loud).

 

They break into their food supplies next, both too hungry to grimace as they quickly consume the dried food, washed down with some of the water from the filtration system Flint rigged up. The hostility from before fades away with the adrenaline, as they both huddle in the cabin and don’t say much.

 

Then Silver pulls out the bourbon bottle once again. “We’re drinking that before one of us really does get eaten by a shark,” he says. This time, Flint can’t find it in himself to argue.

 

 

 

 

•

 

 

 

  
Later, Silver studies his own hand. They’re both sitting on the ground in the cabin across from each other, legs stretched out. The open bottle rests between their knees.

 

“It was an incident with champagne,” he declares finally, showing Flint the pink line up the side of his hand. Flint tilts his head, the bridge of nose pink, peeling a little from the sun earlier. “I was chopping off the cork, and I misjudged my own strength.”

 

“What really happened?” Flint asks. There’s a flush high on his cheeks that Silver suspects match his own, thanks to the bourbon, and maybe a little sunburn.

 

“You’re right,” Silver says, “It was my first incident with sharks. Clamped down right onto my hand, nearly down to the bone - “

 

“You’re full of shit.”

 

“Now, captain,” Silver drawls, “Why would I lie to you?”

 

“You think that’s a scar?” Flint says. He shifts, and as he watches, stats to unbutton the top of his shirt up, eventually enough to reveal the upper quadrant of his chest, his elbow landing with a thump on the table.

 

Thanks to the flames as well as the moonlight, Silver watches as his fingertips making contact with the furled, pink-scarred flesh, curving up to his shoulder where there’s another bandage from the bullet. “You wanted a sailor’s tale? Try this.”

 

Silver finds he has to place his tongue neatly between his teeth before answering, ”You're saying a shark did that?”

 

“Bar fight,” Flint says, letting go of his shirt. Silver lets out a breath, just a little too delayed, stealing back the bottle to take a long swig. “I was more rebellious in my youth.”

 

“You’re not that old.”

 

“Old enough to have some wounds.”

 

“You really want to say that, when you’re sitting across from a man who lost his leg to a shark?”

 

Flint scoffs. "There is no way a shark took your leg!"

 

"Of course not," Silver says, smirking. After he draws the silence out, for what feels appropriately dramatic enough period of time, he adds, "It was two sharks."

 

  
Flint scoffs. The light from the small fire outside makes the shadows high on his cheeks sway along with the rhythm of the boat. “Do you ever say anything straight?”

 

“Absolutely not,” Silver says, and waggles his eyebrows just a little. Flint just snorts, and he takes back the bottle.

 

Flint’s face is as close to relaxed as he’s ever seen, fiddling with the edge of the label, his eyelashes casting a slight shadow just below his eyes. Silver doesn’t realize he’s staring, not until Flint prompts, “What kind of shark was it, then?”

 

He clears his throat.”Bull shark, I believe," Silver says. "Two nasty ones - it was the dead of winter, and I was spending a summer as an intern reporter, stationed on one of those Arctic ice-breaking ships - "

 

“Those are a warm water species," Flint interrupts, but there's something dangerously close to fond in his expression, as the flames. "Get your story right.”

 

“I’ll take it into consideration.” Silver watches him drink, feeling hidden and yet far too visible under the swinging light overhead. The bourbon was a great idea. He’s much less concerned about inevitable death right now, much more fixed on the way that Flint’s throat works as he swallows more of the bourbon.

 

Flint meets his eyes again, and abruptly, he says, “You could’ve fallen in too. Earlier.”

 

Ah. Back to thinking about death, then, just as quickly. Silver toys with the cork in his hands. “Consider it selfish,” he says. “If you’d been eaten or drowned, I don’t want your ghost haunting me for the rest of my life.”

 

“Bold of you to assume you’d make it back, without me.”

 

Silver laughs, and it’s only half the bourbon that makes his chest warm. Talk about making the best of a bad situation. ”You’re something else, you know that?”

 

“So I’ve been told,” Flint says, and he leans forward - and Silver is slow to react, for a moment wondering if he’s - and Flint snags the cork from him, setting the bottle back between their knees. “You know, I figured this would happen one day, that I’d get trapped like this.”

 

Silver chases any feeling in his throat down with an empty swallow. He tastes the salty air hanging around them in the cabin when he licks his lips. “That’s,” he says, “Awfully optimistic of you.”

 

“I’ve spent most of my life on ships,” Flint says, rolling the cork in his own hands. “Didn’t really expect these circumstances.”

 

“How do you know so much about sharks?” Silver wonders out loud. “Do you have some weird anti-Jaws obsession?”

 

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. “Marine biology, as an undergraduate,” Flint says. 

 

“No!”

 

“I enlisted in the Navy when I was twenty. Really only came in handy for drinking games, then.”

 

“You're pulling my leg here.”

 

“Then I moved to Covina, and it helps to know about the sharks,” Flint says. “Reassures both tourists and fishermen, to know the kind of species to watch out for - but they’re not as dangerous as everyone thinks.”

 

“So you tell me,” Silver says, “Have you missed the news?”

 

“Unfortunately, I haven’t,” Flint says, and something twists across his face. “Some kind of fluke. Something must be disrupting the local populations.”

 

  
The dying fire outside burns low enough to illuminate the bottle between them for a moment. Silver watches it, then he says, “So why Covina?"

 

Flint sets aside the cork, and they both watch as it rolls a little on the deck surface, with the sweep of the ocean under the boat. Whatever he’s expecting to hear, it’s not, “I was a whistleblower,” Flint says. “My commanding officer, he gave me the option of a dishonorable discharge, or potentially prison, if the Navy chose to move forward with their retribution.”

 

Silver laughs. Flint’s face doesn’t move. “Wait - really?”

 

“I made some powerful enemies,” Flint says evenly. “And it wasn’t just myself that I had to consider, if I even stayed.”

 

His face isn’t tight or annoyed like before, and so Silver finds it’s with genuine curiosity that he asks next, “Hamilton?”

 

“Thomas was the one who convinced me to come forward in the first place,” Flint says, looking wry and fond at once. Silver decides it’s a good look on him, and that thought makes him swallow, dry, once again. “Let’s just say his father was… implicated. Even though it went badly in the end, he left with me, and we came to Covina.”

 

“You’re kidding,” Silver says, thrown off guard. But Flint’s face begins to close off, and he adds, quickly, “No, not that, I mean - it’s not what I expected.”

 

Flint raises a single eyebrow, now looking amused at Silver’s apparent revaluation of him. “And what exactly did you expect?”

 

“Something, I don’t know, a little less prime time television,” Silver muses. “Thrown out of the Navy and running away with a man - you took off, just like that?”

 

“Most people, I feel, would ask what I leaked.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure you just picked one of many skeletons in their closets.” Silver grins at him, and after a moment, Flint mirrors the expression. He ignores the pleased feeling that elicits, and he adds, “In even my admittedly limited experience, the military isn’t incredibly fond of those who stray from the crowd.”

 

  
“Thomas had a great-aunt here who willed him her house,” Flint says. “Covina was convenient, to answer your question.”

 

“And very out of the way,” Silver supplies. “I asked around about you, you know, and no one brought up that the two of you were together.”

 

“We live apart,” Flint says. “It’s not - a secret, not really. People value their privacy here, and others. With Thomas running for an election, I thought it would be best for him to avoid association with someone like me. I didn’t want to take anything else from him.”

 

His words are brusque, but Silver can see how Flint is throwing them out as if to put them far away from him, to avoid cutting himself on them. “I see,” he says, softly.

 

Flint’s expression is quickly morphing back into something more reserved. “So now you know.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You don’t need to say that.”

 

“I am. And I get it,” Silver says. He knocks his knee into Flint’s, the motion at odds with how heavy his eyelids feel at the moment. He can nearly feel Flint looking at him. Maybe it’s the bourbon, but he finds himself venturing, “Madi and I, we’ve always lived apart. Confused the shit out of her parents, among others - but we like our space, when it's the two of us. Even when it was going well.”

 

“Madi - your ex-wife?”

 

“She’s not really my ex-wife,” Silver says, and relents under the look that Flint gives him. “I mean, we’re separated, sometimes, yeah - I’m not that kind of bad ex-husband. But it never feels truly over, and I don’t know if I ever want it to be.”

 

Flint looks like he’s choosing his words carefully before settling on replying, “That sounds complicated.”

 

“Yeah, you thought your story was so impressive,” Silver says, daring to knock his knee one again into Flint’s, leave it this time. Flint doesn’t shift his leg, and Silver can feel the warmth seeping through his skin. “Less political intrigue, maybe. We do share an ex-boyfriend, which was a time, let me tell you.”

 

Flint’s quiet for a moment, though. “You said that you thought that you two were driven together. Were you driven apart by something else?”

 

He’s decidedly not staring at Silver’s prosthetic leg, which Silver saves him by tapping on the metal shin. “That was actually behind the first courthouse wedding,” Silver says with only some forced ease. “And, ironically, the first divorce. I’m not so good with sharing, believe it or not.”

 

Flint doesn’t follow it with some kind of apology, which Silver can appreciate - his own faux pas just now, beside. “She’d be better off without me,” Silver adds, and he can pretend that the words don’t hurt him, if only for a brief second. “Guess maybe it’s finally caught on.”

 

“Thomas gave up his career and his life for me,” Flint says. “Believe me, I understand.”

 

He doesn’t even know the start of it, and yet - “Yeah, well, it is what it is,” Silver says, letting all the air escape his lungs in a long exhale. “I think you’d like her. If we get out of this - “

  
  
“If we get out of this,” Flint tells him, “I’d like to meet her.”

 

“Yeah,” Silver says, his blink growing slow. He could just close his eyes for a brief second, so easily - “If we could just figure it out, I don’t know…”

 

He might finish his sentence, or maybe not, because he falls asleep before he can decide on just what he wanted to say.

 

 

 

 

  
•

 

 

 

  
Silver wakes up to Flint swearing up a storm.

 

“We fucking could have missed it and never have known, I cannot believe - shit!“

 

“What?” Silver demands, pushing himself up to his feet as best as he can. Flint’s still on the ground across from him, though. He’s dragging his hands over his head, looking half-crazed with dark circles under his eyes. Any goodwill that has gathered between them from last night, apparently, has evaporated. “Are we - are we sinking?”

 

“We fell asleep,” Flint snaps at Silver, who raises his hands automatically in response. If his hair was any longer, Silver is sure he’d be tearing it out right about now. Instead, he’s glaring at Silver like he’s the one who woke him up, “We goddamn fell asleep - it’s been hours, someone could have gone by, and we would have never known - “

 

Silver glances up, then looks back at him. “Wait - “

 

“I shouldn’t have listened to you,” Flint throws back, looking like he’s getting redder and redder the longer he fumes. To Silver’s growing unease, he seems to mutter to himself, next, “We’re in a dangerous situation - “

 

“Flint!”

 

“What?”

 

“Look,” Silver says, gesturing out the broken window with a slightly shaky hand. Whatever Flint was going to growl at him next dies on his tongue, as he staggers upright, following his finger to the dark curve of land on the horizon, the flash of light in the distance.

 

 

 

 

•

 

 

 

  
It takes longer than expected to actually make it to the land, though. As best as Flint can tell, they are, indeed, growing closer to land with every wave that buffers the ship. With each passing second, he’s growing dangerously close to optimistic, even.

 

While they wait, they finish off their water supply. They’re lucky that they’re close to land, otherwise, they might risk worse dehydration, despite their careful rationing - barring the bourbon incident.

 

There are sunspots in his vision, like he’s been caught staring up at the sky for too long. Silver’s sitting out on the deck, leaning on the side and letting his fingers dangle in the water like he can propel them to the shore himself. Flint can nearly imagine the sensation himself, feel the water on his own hands.

 

Christ, he told Silver about Thomas. He can’t remember the last time he’s actually spoken about him to anyone else, certainly not their past - not to Hal, or Billy, Anne or anyone else who he comes in contact with on a regular basis.

 

Flint doesn’t realize he’s watching him, from the shadier side of the boat, until Silver says, “You’re not thinking that we swim to shore, are you?”

 

He turns his head, raising an eyebrow. Silver says, “Because I’d really not like to have come all this way, step off this boat and right into a very sharp set of teeth.”

 

Flint makes himself look at the shore again. “Actually,” he says, “For swimmers, the most common depth for attacks is only - “

 

“Do not finish that,” Silver threatens, but he twists around and raises an eyebrow, seemingly studying him for a moment. “Come on. Are you hungover or moody?”

 

“Are those my only two options?”

 

“We’re about to have the most miraculous comeback,” Silver says. “You look like you are genuinely regretting not being able to catch that shark after all - ha, that’d be a plot twist."

 

Flint snorts. “It’s not unlikely that no one noticed us missing,” he says. “

 

 

 

 

•

 

 

 

 

They end up beached on the shore of some stretch of land that goes for miles and miles in the distance, just as night falls yet again. Flint barely has his feet on the ground before Silver’s flinging himself off the boat right next to him, planting his hands firmly into the sand.

 

“Oh, thank god,” Silver exclaims, lifting his hands and letting grains fall from between his fingers, looking like he’s about three seconds away from missing the soil itself.

 

“We made it,” Flint says, half to himself, half in response. It’s like the past few days have been some dream, and he’s staggering out, the water lapping his ankles, feeling like he’s about to lurch awake any second now. 

 

“I’m never going out on a boat again,” Silver says, and Flint glances over to see his face half-pressed into the soil like some welcome embrace.

 

“What,” Flint says, “You don’t want to go try to hunt a shark again?”

 

That gets him a fistful of sand thrown in his direction, but they’re both too giddy to do more than relish in the still ground below their shoes at this point.

 

 

 

 

 

•

 

 

 

  
Flint leaves the boat on the beach, takes anything of value in a duffle bag, and they hike to the nearest road. From there, it’s a matter of hitchhiking to the nearest town, going to the nearest taxi stand, and convincing the driver to drive them the forty-five miles back to Covina.

 

In the cab, Silver runs his hands over the seat, closing his eyes as his head slumps back against the rest. Flint tugs his shirt more around his wound - ignoring the driver’s looks in the rear view window - and he gives him Thomas’s address. He can go to a hospital later, he decides, he just needs to be far away from that damn boat right about now. 

 

 

 

 

  
•

 

 

 

  
He knows something’s wrong as soon as the taxi pulls up to the house.

 

The lights are all off except for those in the living room. They’ve had so many arguments over the lightbulbs, Flint thinks. Thomas likes to leave on lamps and ceiling lights even when he leaves the room, would go to bed in a house full of light - and probably does, the nights that Flint doesn’t stay over, goes around and switches everything off before he joins him.

 

Flint digs out his wallet, pays the driver with slightly damp bills. Then they’re out front, just standing there.

 

He frowns. “Something’s not right,” Flint says out loud.

 

Silver says, “You should probably tell him you’re back and not missing, or in a ditch somewhere.”

 

“Right,” Flint says, and he walks up the driveway, knocks on the door.

 

When Thomas answers the door, what catches Flint’s attention, first, is how red his eyes are. Thomas’s face is pale, drawn, and he looks hollowed out. He’s wearing sweatpants - and when’s the last time Thomas wore sweatpants - and Flint blinks, just as Thomas lets out some horrible, quiet sound.

 

“What,” Flint says dumbly, as Thomas reaches out as if to touch his shoulder, then snatch his fingers away at the last moment. “What happened?”

 

“You’re alive,” Thomas whispers. “You’re - you’re here.”

 

“Oh, no,” Silver says from behind him.

 

“Of course I am,” Flint says, catching Thomas’s hand. “What are you talking about?”

 

Then things take yet another turn for the weird. “Madi?” Silver says then, sounding just as bewildered as he feels in that moment. Flint can’t drag his eyes away from Thomas’s expression, not until he says, “What - “

 

The woman that he didn’t even notice pushes by Thomas, by Flint. She flings her arms around Silver’s neck. That, Flint watches, dumbfounded, before turning back to fully face Thomas, who’s still staring at him - like he’s seen a ghost.

 

“I have a feeling,” Flint says, “You might have gotten some bad news.”

 

“In both the inaccurate and tragic sense,” Silver finishes behind him, before saying in a low, soothing voice, “Hey, hey, I’m here - “

 

Thomas lets out another sob. “James,” he just says, before he’s pulling Flint into a desperate, tight embrace. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

•

 

 

The story unfolds, and honestly, he might just have to take himself to the hospital to have a moment alone to process all of this.  

 

“Let me get this straight,” Silver says, “The police said that we were eaten by a shark?”

 

“Attacked, yes,” Thomas says. He’s still clutching onto Flint’s hand, holding on like he’s going to disappear at any moment. Similarly, Madi hasn’t taken her eyes off of Silver. “They said that wreckage washed up on the north beach the other day, that there were shark teeth marks on - whatever they could find.”

 

Flint squeezes his hand, hard, when Thomas’s voice breaks. “Well, we didn’t,” he says, “We were just shot at, and ended up adrift for a couple of days. The Eurydice is still beached up the coast, actually, I have to call Gates to pick her up.”

 

He means it to be reassuring, but Silver coughs from beside him - and Thomas now looks stunned once again. “ _What_?”

 

“Uh,” Flint says, now aware of his error.

 

Thomas throws a wild glance over to Madi, who lifts her shoulders, looking similarily in disbelief, her head going between Flint and Silver. “Did you say someone _shot_ at you?” he repeats, turning back to Flint with that incredibly sharp look of his.

 

Flint says, “Kind of. Not anyone I knew, though."

 

There’s a silence that stretches out, at that. Silver says, probably in an attempt to mitigate that awkwardness, “Who do you think we should call, tell them we’ve come back from the dead?”

  
  
“No one,” Madi says, looking upset, “Not until you clarify why someone was _shooting at you_ .”

 

“We’d like to know that, too,” Flint points out, causing her to glance over at him just as sharply. “It’s as much of a mystery to us.”

 

“I’m sorry, but how do you two know each other?” Silver asks, “And how did _you_ end up here?”

 

Madi has a kind of steady, no-nonsense air about her, but her face looks far softer and open when she looks at Silver - pained and relieved as Thomas had. “When you didn’t call to check in,” she says, pausing as she swallows, “I tracked down where you ended up. I found Thomas at the press conference announcing that you two were - victims.”

 

Jesus. Thomas thinking he was dead, after finding out like that - Flint threads his fingers into Thomas’s, feels him squeeze back like some small physical comfort.

 

“I still don’t get it,” Silver says, though, a little an echo of the doubt that’s been wiggling in the back of Flint’s mind ever since Thomas had opened the door. “The boat was damaged, but it wasn’t wrecked. Why’d they think that it was us?”

 

Thomas’s lips thin. He runs his thumb over Flint’s knuckles. Flint watches his hands as Madi answers, “They knew which boat you were out on, right?”

 

Flint nods. He had filled out the appropriate paperwork before leaving the harbor’s marina - better safe than sorry. From all accounts, they had been missing for long enough for them to retrieve the paper to figure out where they were - and if they had thought that the wreckage had been them, after all -

 

“When did this happen?” Flint asks, his mind working.

 

Madi looks at him. “Two days ago,” she answers. “Why?”

 

“They would’ve known,” Flint says, “That whatever they found - it wouldn’t have been the Eurydice. And from that, they gathered that we had been on it, that we were attacked by that shark?”

 

Madi blinks once, twice, processing this. “There was blood,” she says. “They told it it was yours, but with what you’ve said -  

 

Flint says, “What’s the chance that someone shot at us and that our deaths were so assumed, despite the evidence, are linked?”

 

There’s a weighted, lengthy pause as they all consider this.

 

“I have to say,” Thomas says, “This does seem suspicious.”

 

“Hang on,” Silver says, “You’re not saying that this is - some sort of _conspiracy_ , are you?”

 

“The simplest solution is often the correct one,” Madi says, looking the most at ease with these realizations. Flint decides he likes her.

 

“Oh my god,” Silver says, “I should not have introduced the two of you. The next time I try to run a con and end up getting shot at, I’m keeping it to myself.”

 

“And how about next time,” Madi says, sweetly and yet a little dangerously as she turns to him, “Don’t make me think that you died, John, or so help me, I will bring you back and kill you myself.”

 

Silver blanches.

 

 

 

  





  


 

 

 

Luckily, it turns out that Madi has just enough medical training to address the bullet wound in Flint’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to go to a hospital, nor explain why he’s not indeed dead as everyone in Covina apparently thinks.

 

Flint would be doing it himself - maybe after a long nap - only Silver, naturally, had piped up, “Aren’t you going to get that shoulder looked at?”, in turn making Thomas’s head snap over to him.

 

Emphasis on _just_ , as Madi swabs something across the wound a little too roughly. Flint’s entire shoulder spasms beyond his control, and he bites back a hiss.

 

“Sorry,” Madi says, glancing up at his face before resuming. “I think if you’re just careful with it, you won’t need to get stitches from a professional.”

 

“I’ll take it,” Flint says, “Thank you.”

 

Now that he’s back home, he feels the last remnants of energy being drained from him the longer he sits - so he looks over to Silver, who’s sitting beside them, handing Madi the occasional piece of gauze. He had sent Thomas to pick up more bandages, though they didn’t strictly need any at this time, after he had seen how he had flinched every time Flint winced himself, just watching the procedure.

 

Now, Silver’s looking at the wound being disinfected himself, but his eyes are unfocused. For a fleeting moment, Flint has to urge to reach out, cover his hand with his own -

 

It must be the pain affecting his brain. To take his mind off of it, Flint carefully nudges him in the leg, asks, “Are you all right?”

 

Silver lets out a long breath before he looks back at him. “It’s a lot to consider,” he says, “That someone tried to kill us. That they wanted everyone to think they were dead - that if we hadn’t made it back, no one would have known.”

 

“We made it back,” Flint says, glancing over to Madi - who is focused, in turn, on taping his shoulder up - then back to Silver. “No sharks here, right?”

 

Now that Silver’s looking in his eyes, though, Flint sees the sharpness there, that he’s clearly been turning something over in his mind. “You know what I’ve been thinking about,” he says, “Is that bounty. That kind of money.”

 

“After everything, you’re still been thinking about the _money_?”

 

“More like who else might be after that,” Silver corrects. He leans forward a little. “Who might be interested in drumming up the press around the attacks - like you’re so fond of reminding me, that is utterly uncharacteristic of them?”

 

“Right,” Flint says slowly, “Your point being?”

 

“What if,” Silver says, “The attacks were faked? All of them, not just ours. Ups the stakes - and the money, yeah?" 

 

“The bodies that were found,” Madi says suddenly, “They were mutilated. They just assumed that it was a shark’s doing, but if if there's a possibility - “ she cuts off just as suddenly, like her mind’s now racing far beyond what she’s able to say in time, before she says, rather distractedly, “We need to see the other investigations - the others." 

 

“Hang on, were you digging into the other cases?” Silver teases, his face open and clearly amused, as she looks back over to him. “Ms. Scott, you look back to your investigative days.”

 

Her mouth curls up a little on the side. “I need to go to the medical examiner’s office,” Madi says, looking like she’s considering three steps ahead of her already. “If they’ve been falsifying the autopsies, or even neglecting to investigate, then that could be something to look into.”

 

“Are you going now?” Flint finds himself asking, as she rises. But Madi has the look about her, and he supposes that with everything that she and Thomas have evidently been through the past few days, he should be the last one to stop her.

 

“If John is right, then we should follow it,” Madi says, pulling off her gloves. "If you two will be fine here - "

 

Flint watches as she presses a kiss to the corner of Silver’s mouth, the man looking caught off guard, before she’s briskly getting her purse and slipping out the front door.

 

Silver stares after her, more than a little stunned. Flint hides his smile, but he doubts he does a good job of it. "You know," he says, "You did pretty well, for someone who has probably never seen an ocean before, keeping it together there." 

 

That breaks whatever spell he’s in, and Silver gives him a faux scowl. “Do you burn engines, engage in gunfights, and nearly fall into shark infested waters with all the tourists you take out? Because I would've thought that'd come up in your Yelp reviews." 

 

“Only the ones who come up with truly awful ideas in the first place.”

 

“I can’t take all the blame for that,” Silver says, then nearly wistfully, “ _Millions_ of dollars, I mean. Knew it was too good to be true."

 

Flint, personally, thinks he’ll maybe miss the opportunity of that kind of money once he’s had a full night of sleep and his shoulder doesn’t ache anymore. He starts to shrug back on his shirt again, wincing as the motion jostles his injury, the bandage that Madi had put on there restricting his ability to slide the sleeve over it from the angle he had.

 

But before he just gives up, Silver reaches out, nearly making Flint drop his own shirt in surprise before he allows it. His fingers graze Flint’s collarbone, the skin above his elbow, as he helps him pull it back on, sleeves going over his arm.

 

  
Flint swallows, tells himself it’s anything but the sensation of Silver’s fingertips, just barely brushing against his neck as he adjusts the shoulder of the shirt.

 

“I suppose now, we try to focus on what comes next,” he says, and Silver looks up at him. “Maybe someone didn’t like the idea of us collecting that money. We should think about - anything who might have known.”

 

Silver starts to do the buttons, every motion tugging the shirt a little more around him. Flint leans a little closer to him before he realizes what he’s doing. “Take it from me,” Silver says, each button done up with a little pressure that descends down his chest, to his stomach, “You’d be amazed what people might do for money.”

 

He glances up, where Flint’s already watching them. He’s met his eyes countless times over the past few days, only now, without the sun bleaching the color from them, his pupils large in the dim light of the front room, Silver looks like he’s choosing his words carefully - and if that isn’t a thought, Flint thinks, as he considers what might happen if he were to move his hands from their precarious position on either side of his lap, to where Silver is leaning right into his space -

 

The door opens, and Thomas comes in, bag balanced under his arm. Silver’s hands drop quickly away from him like he’s been burned, and Flint similarily feels like he’s been caught at something, his face feeling just as hot and flushed like the sun damage from the past few days has just now caught up to him.

 

But Silver says, “I should probably shower. Get some of the salt off me,” and he’s rising, nodding to Thomas as he goes by, and decidedly not looking back at Flint.

 

Thomas raises an eyebrow at him, and Flint can’t even muster a shrug. Thomas says, slowly, “I brought more bandages. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

 

Flint runs a hand over his face. “I am,” he says, exhaling, then gives him a tired smile. “Can we just go to bed?”

  


 

 

 




  


 

 

In their bedroom, now that they’re alone, Thomas looks as exhausted as he feels. Flint watches as Thomas paces from where he’s sitting on the bed - a gesture that fills him with equal parts fondness and guilt since he knows he’s the cause of that stress, that pent-up energy just leeching out of him right now from even across the room.

 

“Hey,” Flint tries, attempting for mild, but he’s so exhausted he thinks everything is imbued with a sense of urgency at this point, as Thomas looks over at him. “Come here. You’re wearing through the carpet.”

 

Thomas comes over, sinking to his knees in front of him like it had been an order, though he looks deep in thought still.

 

Flint reaches out. “Hey,” he says, cradling his jaw. “Are you with me?”

 

“I thought you were dead,” Thomas says, quietly. “I thought I’d never get to see you again. James - “

 

Flint runs his thumb under his chin. “I’m here,” he says again, then more firmly, “Not even a shipwreck - a  _shark_ could take me away from you. You know that." 

 

"Move in with me," Thomas says suddenly, and Flint cards a hand through his hair. "I'm serious. Life is too goddamn  _short -_  and I don't care what anyone thinks, even though you might, I just want you here. Okay?" 

 

This should probably provoke a better conversation, but right now, he would give Thomas anything he asked for. "Okay," Flint tells him, sees his eyes fall half-closed. He leans in to press a kiss against his forehead. 

 

Thomas leans into his touch, closing his eyes and exhaling. Eventually, Flint pulls himself back, enough so that Thomas can follow him into their bed.

 

Thomas presses up against him, ever mindful of his shoulder, and Flint lets his head drop to the side, face against his neck. The lamp is still on beside their bed, but he decides that it’s not worth getting up and letting go of him to turn it off.

  


 

 

 




  


 

 

 

He’s half convinced that when he wakes up the next morning, the whole venture was some horrible dream - the gunshots and the sharks and the boat all crazed figments of his imagination.

 

Only Silver wakes up in sheets that are unfamiliar to him, sun streaming across his face from a window blind he didn’t know he had to close. It’s still morning, by the best he can gauge, though he feels rested and strung out all at once. There's movement he can hear from somewhere outside the room, so he gets up, puts back on his leg. 

 

In the kitchen, though, he’s surprised to see Thomas Hamilton already there and awake. The man stands in front of a sizzling pan, staring down into a mound of scrambled eggs like he’s cooking them with his gaze rather than the stovetop.

 

“Uh,” Silver says, unsure of the social etiquette reserved for this kind of situations, “Hello.”

 

“Madi came by, early,” Thomas says, glancing behind him and saving Silver having to ask. “She told me to tell you that she’s following a lead, and she’ll call you if it becomes fruitful.”

 

“All right,” Silver says, “Is Flint still - “

 

“He left,” Thomas says, his back to Silver. “Went to go work on the Walrus.”

 

“Huh.” Silver tries not to let his surprise come through, in case this is some touchy subject he’s just accidentally treaded across. He tries, “Do you need a hand?”

  
  
“James has very rarely given me cause for worry in our life together,” Thomas continues instead, as Silver slowly comes into the room. “The few times that it has happened, though, once I’m done being relieved, and he’s done feeling guilty, we do tend to snap at each other.”

  
  
Silver takes a seat at the kitchen island. “You - threw him out?”

  
  
“It was a mutual, if unspoken, decision,” Thomas says, then a bit wryly, “We’ve worked out how to best mitigate unnecessary shouting.”

 

Silver privately recalls the memorable arguments that he and Madi have had, and thinks privately that their trouble always came from not having those words. To each their own.

 

He feels more than a little unease, sitting here, with the man he’s heard much about and yet has very little of a sense of who he is, too. He’s not sure what he expected - hearing Flint talk about him, feeling a little like a voyeur last night when he sees how Flint’s sharp edges soften in front of him, makes him into something that Silver doesn’t quite recognize - he thinks he nearly feels jealous of that, of the history he doesn’t know there, that he could just witness the surface of.

 

Thomas continues to stir. “Has he told you about me?” he asks.

 

“Some,” Silver answers. “You knew him when he left the Navy, and the circumstances surrounding his departure and arrival here.”

 

“That’s right,” Thomas says. He turns, then, looks at him. His face is calm and open, even as he says, “I don’t know what you’re planning. But if you hurt him, you will regret it.”

 

Silver tenses. “What was that?" 

 

“If you were somehow involved in the incidents that led up to him becoming injured,” Thomas says steadily, “The boat, any of it - “

 

“The boat I was on, mind you, same as him as per our agreement - “

 

“If you were,” Thomas tells him, arms at his sides, not budging, “I’m going to ask you to leave. Leave here, leave Covina - “

 

“Listen, you have no reason to trust me,” Silver says hotly before he can think better of it. “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you - but whatever you think of me, we both got involved in this mess.”

 

“You’ve known him for a few days at best - “

  
  
“He’s my friend, now,” Silver snaps at him. “Because of the last few days. Believe me when I say this was not some convoluted plot. I don’t care what you think about me, but don’t accuse me or tricking him of anything.”

 

He stands up, intending to leave anyway, but then Thomas says, simply, “You care for him.”

 

His tone is different - none of the measured, direct quality anymore - but instead, like he’s suddenly examined Silver and come up with some result. Silver says, “We are operating under the same definition of friendship, right?”

 

Thomas doesn’t say anything, but the way he’s looking at him speaks for itself - a kind of dawning realization.

 

“It’s not like that,” Silver says, then with an edge. There’s something that bothers him, like a string from deep inside him that’s being tugged - no, _yanked_. He can’t rid the sensation as the other man watches him. “I should go catch up with Madi. Thanks for breakfast, or whatever this was - “

  
  
“You should talk to him,” Thomas says. He’s giving that peculiar look to Silver, still, and it’s not the look of a jealous husband like Silver had assumed. “I’m looking out for James, and I suppose you are, too."

 

He can’t even begin to entertain what that means. Silver finishes adjusting his prosthetic into the shoe, and he says, a little roughly, “Do you have the information for Madi’s motel?”

 

After a moment, Thomas nods.

 

 

 

 

  


•

 

 

 

Even with the overcast sky above him, it’s still humid enough that Flint’s shirt sticks to his back. Despite the years of calluses that have build up, his hands still ache the longer he spends sanding down the new transom. The wood is a high-quality one, dense and fragrant, as he smoothes the edges, keeping it flush against where it attaches to the stern.

 

He’s not in the marina, mostly given the fact that the people think he’s dead. But since he had to put his hands to something, get his mind off everything, he had gone back to the boat, still parked on its trailer just a few blocks away. No one’s going to find - or disturb him - here, or so he thinks.

 

He hears footsteps approaching him, but he keeps at his task. They’re too light to be Thomas, without the distinct gait of Silver - and his prediction proves correct when the shadow falls across him, and she clears his throat.

 

“I was told you might be here,” Madi says, stopping just before the boat. Flint is reminded of Silver standing on a dock next to this very boat, not even a week ago, though with an expression unlike from her neutral one now. “Your husband knows you well.”

 

Flint clears his throat. “We’re not married,” he says - though if there’s one more thing that this whole shark hunting debacle has made him think about, it’s that he and Thomas should probably have a conversation about that, too. He runs the sandpaper over a rough-looking edge. It’s coming together quite nicely, he thinks, eyeing the surface before him.

 

Madi nods at the boat. “This is yours?”

  
  
Flint brushes some of the sawdust off the plaque reading the  _Walrus_. “She is,” he says, “Are you just now coming from the medical examiner’s office?” 

  
“That was my first stop,” Madi says. The way she’s holding herself, a little stiffly and absolutely taking note of his every reaction, makes him stop working. “I’ve come across some information that might prove… insightful. But there are some things I have to ask you about, first.”

 

He sets down the sandpaper, a bit warily. “All right.”

 

Madi says, “Before John approached you about the shark bounty, did you know about it?”

  
  
“I had heard about the attacks,” Flint says, “But I didn’t know about the bounty.”

 

“You’ve been a resident of Covina for five years,” Madi says, unexpectedly, as he blinks. “And in that time, you’ve worked in the marina, doing tours and repairing boats?”

 

He feels a little like he’s being cross-examined in a court. “Yes,” Flint says, “May I ask as to why - “

 

“This bounty,” Madi says, cutting him off with certain steel in her voice, “You were going to collect it, from Woodes Rogers, after you successfully hunted the shark that’s been behind numerous attacks in the past few weeks?”

 

“Sure,” Flint says, feeling entirely at loss. He rises, then, still on the boat above her. “What are you getting at here?”

  
  
Her eyes narrow. “I want you to look at me and tell me,” Madi says, scrutinizing him, “That you are not, and have not ever, conspired with Woodes Rogers regarding these shark attacks.”

 

He blinks once again, feeling like maybe he should ask more questions of this line of thought. “ _Absolutely_ not,” Flint emphasizes, “Madi, Rogers is a lowlife. Thomas is running against him, I mean - is that what this is about?”

 

They stare at each other. Her reaction, though, surprises him - whatever she sees, she believes. “Okay, good,” Madi says next, and without further preamble, “Because I think Rogers is involved in both the attack on your boat, and he’s been faking attacks for his political gain.”

  
  
That’s - that’s not what he expected. Flint comes close to spluttering, gets out, “What - and you thought  _I - "_

 

“I had to be certain, for John's sake. The shark attacks were fake,” Madi tells him, looking rather serene considering the words she's saying. “I went to the medical examiner’s office last night, and after... perusing his records, I found out he’s been on Roger’s payroll this entire time. The kind of wounds that were inflicted on those bodies, they were to hide bullet wounds - which aligns with your story of being shot at. So I dug into it some more - “

 

“Christ. There’s been construction going on in the harbor,” Flint remembers with a start - Billy telling him, but he had been so annoyed with Silver at the time -  “I forgot about it, by the time Silver and I headed back in. We were grounded before someone began shooting at us, before we managed to get away - “

 

“You would have otherwise gone straight into a trap,” Madi finishes. “You both seem to be the only ones who have survived such an attempt." 

 

Flint climbs down the ladder to the ground, processing this as he lands. The heat from the pavement radiates through his shoes, as Madi glances around like they’re at risk of being overheard.

 

"You figured all this out," Flint says, "Overnight?"

  
  
"I thought John had died not a day ago," Madi says, "Sleep wasn't going to come easily." 

 

“So you’re telling me,” Flint says then, slowly, “Rogers wanted to - what, get people afraid of sharks? That seems like a lot of work.”

  
  
“The people he targeted, they either weren’t going to be missed,” Madi says briskly, “Or they were likely to be in opposition to him. Your dislike of Rogers is not a secret in this town, even I could learn that in the brief time I’ve been here - “

 

“I know,” Flint says. “And Silver?”

  
“He was just a newcomer to them, looking to collect that money.” She smiles, then, with all her teeth showing. “They didn’t account for me. With the bounty, if no one ever caught a shark, but everyone continues to be afraid - “  


“Let me guess,” Flint says, “Rogers could step in, set up some committee of his own, and the attacks would magically appear. I mean, he’d win any election that way.”

 

“It helps that you do have a record,” Madi adds, carefully, “You have Thomas, but they could use that to discredit you - even him, if you think Rogers could have known about the two of you.”

 

“Probably,” Flint says. He runs his hand over the back of his head, through short hair. “He went to university with people who would’ve known Thomas’s father, who knew about us - I, uh, was in the Navy once, you see - “

  
  
“You leaked intelligence on a number of illegal bribes and trades for your superiors,” Madi finishes for him, “I know. Thomas told me. He also told me that you took the fall for the two of you, how it cost you your career, covering up for him - so that he could freely leave when they sent you here.”

 

It’s funny, how it’s been a long time since he’s spoken with anyone - even with Thomas - about those days, and yet he’s revealed so much to both Silver and Madi in the past week. Flint says, steadily, “Even if that was true, I would do it again. You’ve met Thomas - he’s the sort of man that you stand up for, to protect, no matter the consequences.”

 

That makes Madi smile again, only softer, and far more genuine. “I know. I apologize for demanding those answers from you, but I needed to know. And now, I suppose, the question is what we do.”

 

“Well,” Flint says, “I _am_ still a dead man. Did you have any ideas on how that might work in our favor?”

  
  
“I think the time for subterfuge is over,” Madi says, matching his look. “Rogers is having a thinly veiled political rally this afternoon. At this point, we need to confront him with the evidence of his misdeeds, in public - and what better than a televised announcement of his?”

 

He understands what Silver sees in her, right about then. “I need to borrow your phone,” Flint says, “Have you told either of them?”

  
  
“I thought I’d give you the honor,” Madi says, “After all, you are about to come back from the dead.”

 

 

 

 

•  


 

 

 

He’s never been to one of Roger’s rallies - come to think about it, he’s not sure he’s ever been to one of Thomas’s, albeit smaller, ones. Flint’s never been fond of crowds. There are a lot of people wandering around with red, white, and blue shirts, all eventually swirling together in a kind of happy-for-now mob to gather in front of the stage that’s set up, with the ocean in the background.

 

Madi pulls up in the rental car, with Flint in the passenger seat. “We should wait,” she says, “Until we can get in contact with John, or with Thomas - “

 

“Yes,” Flint says, “That would be the smart decision.” He’s itching to get out, though, demand some answers - or do _something._

  
  
Outside, someone with a speakerphone calls, “And now, the mayor of Covina!”

 

They both look at each other, as the applause starts. “Of course,” Madi says, just as evenly, “We must take the opportunity presented to us.”

 

“Sure,” Flint says.

 

Madi glances out her window. “He’s to the side of the stage.”

 

Flint says, “Stage left or stage right?”

 

 

 

 




 

 

 

 

He remembers what happens next, in bits and pieces.

 

He and Madi walking towards the stage, slipping through the crowd with relative ease. A few irritated murmurs, here and there, until someone had gasped, recognizing him, and then Madi had been behind him, pushing him forward right to the front.

 

By then, Rogers was on the stage, hand raised in some gesture as he had talked. That is, until his eyes had slid down, to the crowd, meeting Flint’s hard gaze.

 

Flint hadn’t moved, just stared right at him. Rogers had gone a remarkable shade of white, incredibly quickly, before opening his mouth.

 

And Flint - well, Flint moved forward, and with muscle memories from boot camp long ago, he had vaulted himself onto the stage. It was so, incredibly easy, getting up there, standing across from Rogers - and punching him right in the jaw.

 

Rogers had staggered back, and maybe there had been gasping, someone shouting - and Flint had taken the opportunity to rush forward, leaning in until he could get an arm around his torso, and then they were both falling off the stage, into the salty water.

 

 

  





 

 

 

He remembers a lot more of the next part, when they press his fingers onto the cold ink stamp down at the station. 

 

Someone had fished him and Rogers out - _unfortunately,_  no shark had decided now was the opportunity to eat him - and promptly arrested him. Rogers has been taken in for questioning, too, if Madi’s small yet smug smile was anything to go by, since it turns out when someone you’ve been claiming was killed walks up to you and punches you in the face, and at your own rally at that, there’s something suspicious going on. Flint suspects there will be many more arrests made in the coming days. 

 

Madi is beside him in the next cell over, for unclear reasons - though he glances down at her knuckles, starting to bruise like his, and he thinks she might have had in back in more ways than one, just now. He flexes his hand, sighs when he realizes that his phone had been in his pocket, after all - now definitely ruined, sitting in a plastic bag somewhere in the police station.

 

They had taken his statement, and Flint had told him clearly who he was. “You’ll find my abandoned boat there,” he says, directing them on the map. “Bullet holes and all.”

 

Now, in the holding cells, he’s starting to regret the theatrics of his actions. Not punching Rogers - but the whole dive off the stage, into the watery depths below? Maybe he is getting too old for some things. Flint’s mouth quirks up before he can help it, and he looks over at Madi - who matches his smile with one, self-satisfied one of her own.

 

It’s not long before someone else joins them. An officer comes around the corner, says, “Your bail’s been posted,” unlocking the doors.

 

Flint and Madi step out, glancing at each other.

 

“So,” Silver’s voice echoes around the corner for a moment, before he himself appears. He’s got a pair of those reflective mirrored sunglasses hanging off the top of his tank top, the ease of his tone at odds with the stiff line of his shoulders. “I see you two are getting along just fine.”

  
  
“John,” Madi says, “I figured it out. We confronted Rogers - “

 

“Yeah, yeah, the whole fake shark attack story. They were incredibly curious as to why I was alive and strolling in here to inquire after you two, and not dead at the bottom of the ocean,” Silver says. He sounds a little too calm. ”Also, I listened to your voicemails.”

 

“John - “  


 

“I just,” and Silver pinches his nose, “I cannot _believe_ I have to be the rational one, here.”

 

“You didn’t answer your phone,” Madi says, “We took the opportunity - “

 

He glares at her. “Oh, so you just had to go confront someone who was entirely fine with ordering people to shoot innocent - “

 

“Silver,” Flint says, “She went along with me. You can blame me - “

  
  
“I’m talking to _you_ , too,” Silver snaps, and his furious eyes go from Madi to Flint. “I mean, I didn’t see footage of _Madi_ punching Rogers!”

 

“He deserved it,” Flint says, steadfast. “He’s the one behind it all - “

 

  
“Yes, and _you_ were nearly shot by one of his bodyguards!” Silver exclaims, just a little shrill as it echoes around the cells. He steps closer to the cell that Flint’s in, then, lowering his voice into a harsh whisper, “I’ve called Thomas, and he told me to tell you that you are a _goddamn idiot."_

  
  
Their victory is tasting a little less sweet. Flint shrugs, though he can’t hide his wince. The fight with Rogers had the consequence of irritating his shoulder, after all, and Silver’s eyes zero in on him even more, brow furrowing. “It’s over,” he says, slowly. “Everything can go back to normal, now.”

 

Whatever he intends, it’s not whatever causes the look that flashes across Silver’s face. “You,” Silver says, rather heatedly, “Are the most _ridiculous, stubborn_ \- “

  
  
“Silver,” Flint tries again, trying to interrupt him with little success -

 

“ - _pig-headed_ , hubristic, goddamn idiot,” Silver finishes, then, hands clenched at his sides. Before Flint can move, though, Silver is seizing the front of his shirt, tugging him in, and he kisses him.

 

Flint inhales, sharply, as Silver steps boldly right into his space, telegraphing all sorts of anger and frustration - and yet something else, too, as he presses his mouth firmly against Flint’s. His hands go to Silver’s hair, only he’s not tugging him away, even as his brain goes blank, lost in the way that Silver’s mouth now slides against his just a bit, turning the kiss into something deeper and intense.

 

He’s aware of the police cell around them in the same way that he’s wondering where this came from - both eclipsed by the face that Silver mutters into his mouth, even as he kisses him, which turns into another sound entirely when Flint dares to press back, his hand running back along Silver’s jaw before he presses in beyond his own control -

 

There’s a clatter, and just as quickly as it had started, Silver pulls back. Flint nearly jumps in his own right, even as Silver’s eyes flit all over his face, the surprise there like Flint had been the one to kiss him, as he slowly stoops down to pick up his sunglasses, evidently having been knocked down by one of them.

 

Flint remembers Madi, who’s still standing there, only when he’s able to drag his eyes away from Silver’s, she’s just standing there, arms crossed. “While I have no doubt that the next conversation you’ll have will be fascinating,” she says, “We should probably leave.”

 

“Yeah,” Silver says - more like breathes out, as a complex collection of expressions shifts over his face. Then he’s turning on his heel, striding out like he can leave _that_ behind, Madi casting a lingering look at Flint before she follows him.

 

  
And Flint - Flint feels adrift and suddenly anchored in his certainty, once again.

 

 

 

  





 

 

 

 

This morning, before he had left to go work on the Walrus, Flint had been in the bathroom brushing his teeth. He had woken up with face half-numb from where it was pressed into the back of Thomas’s shoulder, and based on his reflection, there were still some red lines etched into his temple from it.

 

Thomas was in the shower next to him, the warm air billowing out from behind the curtain. Flint is just barely restraining himself from climbing in and joining him, tells himself that despite the pleasure from that, he needs to go out and clear his head for a few hours.

 

He’s relishing in the clean feeling in his mouth again, finally free of the taste like something had died in it - when Thomas says, “Is there something there with him?”

 

Flint finishes brushing his teeth. He brings the washcloth up to his mouth, wipes away the stray flecks of toothpaste, giving him more time in steadying his voice. “Him?” Flint says, as if in question.

 

He’s being purposefully obtuse, which Thomas’s answering snort tells him that he knows that, too. But he finds his throat growing tight at the thoughts that such a question brings up. Because he knows that there - that there is something there. That whatever had transpired between Silver and him on the boat, he can’t shake free of that sensation - that when he had finally seen him, he knew that there _was_ something there.

 

Thomas doesn’t pull back the shower curtain at the lengthy pause, but Flint can sense he’ll just wait him out. He looks at himself in the mirror, and he says, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  
  
The shower turns off. Thomas reaches for his towel, his long, pale arms stretching to grab it before retreating back behind the fabric. “You know,” he says, “I saw you, last night. You looked at him, and I remembered how you looked at Miranda.”  


“I think if I ever yelled at her as I’ve shouted at him, she would’ve killed me on the spot.”

  
  
“You know what I mean.” Thomas draws back the curtain, now, wrapping the towel around his waist.

 

Flint says, haltingly, “He - it’s not easy, with him. I thought he just got under my skin, but it’s not - it might be more than that.”

 

Thomas regards Flint with a far softer look than Flint thinks he ever should deserve, as he says, “Have you told him?”

  
  
“We’ve known each other for a handful of days,” Flint says, dryly, “I thought I was going to die on that boat with him, so it didn’t really come up, no - “  


 

“I knew I was going to love you the day I met you,” Thomas says, with the kind of easy, bold confidence that Flint himself has never been able to fully manage. “So why haven’t you?”

 

There are a thousand answers he could give. There are a million ways he could think of why he shouldn’t - why it’s impossible, unintended, and altogether insane. Flint answers, “It’s never that easy. He’s in love with Madi.”

  
  
“And I’m in love with you,” Thomas points out, stepping out of the bathtub. He comes behind him, meets his eyes in the mirror. “And unless that sunburn got to your gorgeous brain, I’m pretty sure you love me too.”

 

And when he says it like that, well -

 

Flint goes to the Walrus. He focuses on cutting the new piece of wood for the transom, focuses on making this thing in his hands fit perfectly, become what he envisions - and he keeps at it, willing himself to think about the type of sandpaper he’ll need next, rather than Silver or sharks or any other plots, until Madi arrives next to the boat.

 

 

 

  





  


 

 

 

Outside of the police station, Flint catches up with them in several, long strides. He thinks of what he should say, only he sees the back of Silver’s head bowed down, those terrible fluorescent shorts he’s wearing, and he shouts, “Hey!”  


Silver pauses, nearly comically, turns around to look at him with raised eyebrows. “Hey?” he echoes. Behind him, Madi tilts her head, sees something on his face that makes her look at Silver, before continuing her way over to the car.

 

The wind’s picking up, he thinks to himself. Sailing weather.

 

They stand across from each other like strangers, and Flint’s still reeling with the realization that he thinks he might know Silver, now, and he wants to know more. “You know,” Flint says, desperately scrambling for _something, anything_ to say, “I still owe you two days on that boat.”

 

After a moment, Silver snorts. “It’s a fair trade,” he says, “Though I’m like, ninety percent sure that check I gave you probably would’ve bounced. Actually, unless your pockets were waterproof, I think that it’s probably long gone - “

 

“Silver,” Flint says, as quiet as he’s able to. “We need to talk.”

 

Something longing passes over Silver’s expression, for the briefest moment - and then it hardens into something like armor over him. “Guess we should,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, “But I think I’m going to leave this place. Take a little vacation. I’ve never been one for the ocean, I guess - “

  
  
“Stay,” Flint says suddenly, and Silver stills. “I don’t know where you were born, if you ever changed your name, what you think about at night. But I want to. I want to know, if you’d let me.” It's everything and not even the start of what he wants to say. 

 

“Madi doesn’t even know,” Silver says then, looking furious - though more at himself than Flint. “Who I am, where I’ve been - and I kissed you, I know, and I wanted to - and I want to, but I can’t let you know. I don’t want you to know, because, for the first time in a long time, I care about what you think, and I _hate_ it. Don’t you see?”

 

Standing there, the two of them in the parking lot, he thinks the wind could blow away the world around them, and he might not ever notice.

 

“Silver,” Flint says, “Stay here. I can already see how you and Thomas might drive each other crazy, sure - “ and Silver opens his mouth, so Flint pushes on, relentless, “He told me to tell you. I want you here. And Madi, too, if she wants. Just - think about it, please.”

 

Silver closes his mouth. After an agonizingly long moment, in which Flint thinks that maybe the wind will just blow him away too and end this now, he says, “Three days.”

 

“What?”

  
  
“I want three tours,” Silver informs him, “On the house, If I’m to be in this goddamn town, I want to know where the nice beaches too. Madi, too.”

  
  
Flint exhales. “Okay,” he says, taking a step forward. “We’ll have to take the Walrus.”

  
  
“As long as I don’t have to do any work,” Silver adds, as Flint reaches forward, touches his forearm, and something lights up in his eyes like now he can believe in what Flint's been trying to say.

 

His fingers slip down his arm, and Silver’s lacing his fingers with his.

 

“No promises,” Flint says, even as he squeezes his hand just like one.

 

 

  


•

 

 

 

 

“So,” Silver informs her, “Sharks, you see, they grow bigger with age, just keep on growing up until they die. The large, slow, ones, you see - “

 

  
“Please don’t listen to him,” Flint interrupts, as Madi casts him a look over her sunglasses. She’s leaning against Thomas, who’s caught up in some book of his - with the new limits on his free time outside the office, he’s been bemoaning his delayed progress on his reading list. Considering he’s got a crew of three people, Flint thinks he’s doing an awful lot of the work, sailing the boat.

  
  
Silver smirks, leaning back on the edge of the _Walrus_. They’ve hit a lull in the wind, so the boat is just barely floating through the waves - but they’ve got time, and he finds that he’s not bothered by the easy stretch of afternoon and water ahead of them. “Are you challenging my knowledge, captain?”

 

Pulling in the mainsheet, Flint says, “‘Knowledge’ is rather a generous stretch,” then he’s laughing as he dodges Silver’s kick to his leg. Until Silver’s settling back, head tilted back as the wind flips through his hair, Thomas muttering to himself as he flips a page.

 

Flint turns back to see where the boat’s going, to the endless expanse of ocean in front of them, and he lets the sun warm his face, too.

 

“Hey,” he can hear Madi ask, “Is that a fin?” and then there’s a clatter, Silver saying, “ _Stop_ , that’s not _funny_ \- “

 

  
  


FIN  
•  
  
  
  



End file.
